by Ben Bova
Thrasher nodded and crawled into the limo. The driver’s compartment seemed to be half a block away from the plush seat he was sitting on. Helluva lot of car for two passengers, Thrasher thought. I ought to get Sid Ornsteen to look into the Washington office’s budget.
The driver phoned ahead as they crossed the bridge over the Potomac, and Reynolds was standing at the entrance to the office building when the limousine pulled up, wearing a hand-tailored light gray business suit and posturing self-importantly with a briar pipe clamped between his teeth. The pipe was unlit, Thrasher saw. It’s a prop, he realized. He looks like a statue to himself.
Reynolds stepped to the curb and waited for the chauffeur to hustle around and open the limo door for him. Ducking inside while Thrasher slid over to make room for him, the Washington rep shook his boss’s hand firmly.
“We’ll be talking to Franklin Larusso,” Reynolds said, without preamble. “He’s in the Contractor’s Services office of the Mission Support Directorate. He’s the pigeon that Yamagata reports to.”
With a shake of his head, Thrasher said, “I don’t understand this setup. I thought ILS was a private company that leased the launch facilities from NASA.”
“Sort of,” said Reynolds, keeping his knowing smirk minimal. “ILS has to operate within NASA’s regulations for safety, scheduling, and all that kind of crap. NASA can pull the plug on them anytime they want to.”
“So it’s not really free enterprise, is it?”
“Only for the news media. In reality it’s a government-run operation, same as it’s always been. But instead of having government employees doing the work, the launch crews are employed by ILS.”
Thrasher felt his brows knitting.
An hour and a half later, he was frowning even harder.
Franklin Larusso turned out to be an amiable-looking Latino with a round face the color of tobacco leaf, a thin moustache, and a bright, toothy smile. He was badly overweight, his paunch straining the buttons of his shirt. His office was modest: a government-issue metal desk, two chairs for visitors, bookshelves crammed with thick reports, one window that looked out at another window across the way.
Although Larusso was still smiling, what he had to say was far from pleasing to Thrasher.
“So, to sum up, you’ll have to get permission from the safety office for each launch,” he was saying, “but before that you’ll need to have a detailed agreement with our legal office that gives complete specifications on each payload you want to launch.”
Thrasher turned from Larusso to Reynolds, who just sat there with that damned pipe, trying to look knowledgeable but offering nothing in the way of help.
“And from what you’re telling me,” Thrasher said to the NASA manager, “that kind of paperwork can take months before NASA approves it.”
Spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness, Larusso replied, “Those lawyers aren’t Speedy Gonzales. Nothing I can do about that.”
“Isn’t there any way we can cut through the red tape?”
“Not at my level. You’ll have to go upstairs.”
Reynolds came to life. “Upstairs? Who?”
“The chief of the safety office.”
“Reed?”
Larusso nodded, his smile gone, his eyes suddenly fearful. Thrasher got the impression that he was scared to speak the name aloud.
6
HAMILTON REED
As they rode an elevator down to the lobby, Thrasher started to ask, “Who is this Reed guy?”
Reynolds held up a cautioning hand. The elevator cab was empty except for the two of them, but still Reynolds insisted on silence. Thrasher felt impressed. Unfavorably.
Once safely in the limousine and on their way back to the office, Thrasher asked again, “Who the hell is this guy Reed?”
Reynolds sucked on his unlit pipe before replying. “Hamilton Reed. One of the old-timers. Been with NASA since the Stone Age. Very powerful guy.”
“In the safety office? How powerful can he be?”
“More powerful than the Administrator, the Deputy Administrator, and most of the people on the Administrator’s staff.”
Thrasher saw that Reynolds was totally serious.
“Like I said,” the Washington rep continued, “he’s been around a lot of years. A lot of people owe him favors. He knows where the bones are buried. And as chief of the safety office he can find ways to stop anybody, any program. Just like that.” Reynolds snapped his fingers.
“Jesus,” said Thrasher.
“I understand what’s going on now,” Reynolds went on, jabbing the pipe in Thrasher’s direction. “Reed’s going to do his best to scuttle your program.”
“Why? What’s he got against—”
“A private program? Go to Mars without NASA? Showing up the space agency? His space agency? He’d rather eat rat shit before he’ll let that happen.”
“Jesus,” Thrasher repeated, more fervently. “How do we get around him?”
Reynolds shook his head like a man in mourning. “I don’t think you can.”
“But we’ve got to! We can’t let some goddamned government bureaucrat stop us!”
Still looking solemn, Reynolds said, “I’ll set up a meeting with him.” Then he added, “If I can.”
Patti Fabrizio said, “Hamilton Reed? Who’s he?”
Before returning to Houston, Thrasher had called Patti and asked her to meet him at the Cosmos Club bar. She swept into the darkly-paneled room, wearing an elegant ankle-length black skirt and long-sleeved cardinal red blouse with gold trim, spotted Thrasher in the booth at the far corner, and walked regally to him.
When Thrasher asked her what she knew about Reed, she shrugged her slim shoulders and admitted she’d never heard of the man.
“He’s an executive at NASA.”
“Oh,” said Patti. “The space agency. Very dull people, mostly. A few of the astronauts are interesting, but most of the feisty ones have retired.”
“Reed’s in the safety office.”
“A faceless bureaucrat.”
Thrasher started to reply, then thought better of it. If Patti doesn’t know Reed, it won’t do me any good to explain who he is to her. The less she knows about this the better. Information is like gold and diamonds in this town, I don’t want her swapping stories about my problems with her newsroom pals. Or anybody else.
It took three weeks for Reynolds to arrange a meeting with Hamilton Reed. On Friday, July third. Thrasher had to phone Victoria Zane and cancel their plans for the Fourth of July weekend.
In his desktop telephone’s screen, Vicki looked hurt. “I was looking forward to the weekend with you.”
“Me too,” Thrasher said.
With an arched brow, she added, “I thought we could make some spectacular fireworks.”
Thrasher gulped. “Me too.”
“What’s so important—”
“Business in Washington,” he said.
“Monkey business?”
“I wish.”
Uriah Heep. Thrasher couldn’t help staring at Hamilton Reed. The man looks like Dickens’ character Uriah Heep. Pinched face, thinning hair, watery eyes behind rimless bifocal lenses. Reed was a thin, gray, chalkdust man, wearing a gray suit and a slightly darker gray tie. With a shock, Thrasher realized the man reminded him of his father.
Reed’s office was almost sumptuous, by NASA standards: top floor of the headquarters building, big and airy with windows that looked out on the traffic streaming out of the city for the holiday weekend.
Reynolds, sitting beside Thrasher in front of Reed’s heavy, dark mahogany desk, started the conversation with a respectful, “I’m very grateful that you found time to meet with us.”
Reed smiled thinly and Thrasher thought of a snake, a pit viper, eying its prey.
“I’m just doing my job as a civil servant,” he said, in a thin, high voice, so softly that Thrasher had to strain to hear his words.
“As you know,” Reynolds said, “Mr. Thr
asher here is heading an effort—”
“To send a crewed mission to Mars,” Reed interrupted. “I’d be a pretty sorry NASA man if I didn’t know that.”
Impatiently, Thrasher broke in with, “Saito Yamagata of ILS tells me we’ll need detailed agreements on the launches that we want to purchase from his company.”
Reed nodded.
“I’d like to explore what we can do to expedite that process.”
Reed leaned back in his creaking swivel chair, pursed his thin lips and steepled his fingers, but said nothing. Thrasher glanced at Reynolds, who sat like a statue, waiting patiently while Thrasher felt his blood pressure rising.
“Safety,” said Reed at last, “is of paramount concern. We’re very proud of our safety record, and we want to make certain that your . . . er, private program meets all the standards of safety and prudence that we have established over the many years of NASA’s virtually unblemished record.”
A vision of the space shuttles that had blown up and killed more than a dozen astronauts flashed through Thrasher’s mind, but he said nothing.
“Safety is of prime importance,” Reynolds agreed.
“We must put the lives of your people before all other considerations, even though they are not NASA employees.”
Thrasher said, “Oh, we won’t be doing any manned launches from Cape Canaveral. All our manned launches will be at the New Mexico spaceport.”
Reed’s eyes flashed and he sat up a little straighter. “You don’t intend to launch people from our Kennedy Center? Why not?”
Thrasher shrugged. “It’s what my tech people figured out. We’ll launch the components of our Mars spacecraft aboard Delta IVs, from the Cape. Manned launches will be from New Mexico.”
Leaning back in the chair once more and steepling his fingers again, Reed said, “I see. But safety is still of primary importance.”
“Of course,” said Thrasher, thinking he had scored a point.
Then Reed’s wintry smile returned and he said, “I understand that one or more of the payloads you wish to launch from the Kennedy Space Center involves components for a nuclear propulsion system. I’ll have to consult with the Nuclear Regulatory Commission about that.”
Thrasher realized this was going to be a long war.
7
HOUSTON
Linda’s voice came through the intercom on Thrasher’s desk, “Jessie Margulis is here.”
Thrasher sighed. This isn’t going to be easy, he told himself. But it’s got to be done.
“Send him right in,” he said, with a heartiness he didn’t really feel.
Margulis came through the door, happily unaware of what was going through Thrasher’s mind. The engineer looked positively cheerful; he was in his shirtsleeves, and carried a rolled-up piece of paper in his right hand. Another blueprint, Thrasher surmised.
“You want to see me, Art?”
Thrasher nodded. “Sit down, Jess. Would you like some coffee? Iced tea?”
“No, I’m fine,” Margulis said as he took one of the chairs in front of the desk. Laying the rolled-up blueprint on the floor, he asked, “What’s up?”
Thrasher reached toward the mug of ginger beer on his desk, then decided to do without it and plunge right in.
“Jess, we can’t use nuclear propulsion.”
Margulis blinked at him. “Can’t use . . . are you kidding me?”
“It’s politically impossible, Jess. Those bastards in Washington will crucify us.”
“But we can’t change the primary propulsion system at this stage of the game! It’d set us back two years! More!”
Thrasher had never seen the engineer so worked up. His normally placid face was red-cheeked. His eyes blazed. Even his fuzzy little goatee looked bristling.
“But the politics—”
“Screw the politics. You told me to design the best vehicle for carrying seven people to Mars, and I did that. They’re building it out in Portales, for god’s sake! This isn’t a used-car lot, where you can pick and choose. We’re building a nuclear-propelled Mars rocket.”
Sagging back in his padded desk chair, Thrasher rolled his eyes ceilingward.
“You told me nuclear was okay,” Margulis went on. “You approved the plan.”
“I know, Jess, but I didn’t realize how much opposition there’d be to nuclear.”
“We’re not going to operate the nuke here on the ground,” Margulis said, almost pleading. “It’ll only be turned on in orbit, four hundred miles up.”
“Can’t we switch back to chemical rockets, like everybody else uses?”
Margulis started to answer, then checked himself. His flushed cheeks paled. He took a deep breath.
Very reasonably, the engineer explained, “Art, the reason we chose to go nuclear was that it’s the best, the most efficient propulsion system. Way better than the best chemical rockets.”
“I know. You told me.”
“Do you know what specific impulse is?” Margulis asked.
His brows knitting, Thrasher replied, “It’s got something to do with a rocket’s efficiency. Like miles per gallon on a car.”
“Efficiency, right. Specific impulse is the measure of how long a pound of propellant will deliver a pound of thrust. It’s measured in seconds.”
Thrasher nodded, thinking that he didn’t need an engineering lecture. But he knew he was going to get one.
Margulis continued, “The best chemical rockets burn hydrogen and oxygen. They give a specific impulse of about four hundred and fifty seconds, four fifty-five.”
“So a pound of hydrogen and oxygen will produce a pound of thrust for four hundred and fifty-some seconds.”
“Right. But the nuclear rocket we’re building has a specific impulse of nine hundred and thirty seconds! Damned near double the best chemical rockets in the world.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts! The nuclear rocket is the best way to go. It cuts the trip time to Mars by a third. It does not emit a lot of dangerous radioactivity, and even if it did the rocket will only be used in space, so it can’t harm anybody or anything.”
Intrigued by the engineer’s intensity despite himself, Thrasher said, “As I understand it, the nuke just acts as a heater. It heats the propellant, which is then squirted out the rocket nozzles.”
Almost smiling, Margulis said. “Right, boss. We use liquid hydrogen as the propellant, heat it up and fire it out the nozzles.”
“And the crew’s not exposed to any radioactivity?”
“The nuclear reactor is shielded. Hell, the shielding takes up about twenty-five percent of the ship’s total mass.”
“And chemical rockets?”
“They need more propellant, give less specific impulse, and would require a complete redesign of the Mars vehicle.”
“Damn.”
“It’s a no-brainer, boss. Nuclear’s the way to go.”
“Except for the politics,” Thrasher grumbled.
“Politics is your end of the stick,” said Margulis. “My job is engineering, not ass-kissing.”
Thrasher sat there and stared at his chief engineer. He wished the task before him were as simple as building a nuclear rocket system for traveling to Mars.
8
TUCSON
For a university town, Thrasher thought, Tucson isn’t so bad. He had spent the night at the elegant Arizona Inn, an oasis of comfort and desert beauty in the midst of the city. After a substantial breakfast of huevos rancheros and fresh grapefruit juice, he’d picked up his rental car—a Mustang slingback—at the Inn’s front driveway.
It was barely nine a.m. and already the blazing Sun was brutal. Summer in the Sonora Desert, Thatcher said to himself as he gunned the engine, grateful that the bellman who had brought the car to him had started the air conditioning on full blast. He wormed out of his summerweight jacket at the first stoplight and tossed it onto the right-hand seat.
The Lunar and Planetary Laboratory was scattered over several loca
tions on campus. Thrasher used the car’s GPS to find the Kuiper Space Sciences Building, on Cherry Street. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but Thrasher didn’t let that bother him.
Vince Egan was waiting for him in the lobby. He jumped to his feet, all nervous energy, as Thrasher pushed through the front door.
“Right on time,” Egan said, sticking out his hand. He was wearing a patterned open-necked sports shirt and comfortable slacks. Dressed for the weather, Thrasher thought, although the building was chilly enough that he regretted leaving his jacket in the car.
“How’re you doing, Vince? Everything ready?”
Egan nodded, then pointed Thrasher to the receptionist’s desk. He had to show his driver’s license and sign a form, and then the cute little straw-haired student behind the desk dimpled into a bright smile and issued him a plastic badge that proclaimed visitor. Egan already had his badge clipped to his belt.
Another student, male, crew-cut, athletic-looking, came through the far door and escorted them along the corridors toward the back of the building. Thrasher felt like a lab rat negotiating a maze. But he knew that the cheese at the end of the labyrinth was a replica of the surface of Mars.
They stepped through a door into a bare, low-ceilinged chamber that looked to Thrasher like a storeroom that had been emptied out. A man and a woman were standing at a bank of electronics consoles set up against one wall. Otherwise the room was blank, empty.
“Professor Winninger,” their student guide called. His voice echoed off the blank walls.
The man turned and blinked at Thrasher and Egan. He was in his sixties, Thrasher guessed, sort of bland looking, with a high forehead and a heart-shaped face. But his dark brown eyes had laugh crinkles in their corners, and he smiled warmly as he approached Thrasher.
“Art,” said Egan, “this is Professor Peter Winninger, head of the Mars simulation program.”
“Peter Winninger,” said the professor in a soft voice as he shook hands with Thrasher. Turning, he said, “And this is Dr. Kristin Anders, the one who really makes this lab work.”
