by Ben Bova
Nodding, Herzberg said, “I can see how you’ve been able to bring this mission into reality. You’re quiet a conniver, Mr. Thrasher.”
“Art; my friends call me Art.”
“I think I’ll stick with Mr. Thrasher for the present. If your VR scheme works, then we can become friends.”
“It’ll work, I know it will. You should get yourself over to the University of Arizona and talk with Dr. Kristin Anders.”
His brow furrowing slightly, Herzberg said, “Anders. I don’t know any Kristin Anders.”
“She works with Professor Winninger.”
“Ah! Winninger I’ve heard of.”
“Dr. Anders does most of the work that he gets credit for.”
His smile turning rueful, Herzberg admitted, “That’s not an unusual situation, I’m afraid.”
“You talk with Winninger and Anders. They’ll convince you that the VR system will work.”
“And then I’ll have to convince Quentin.”
“Take him to Tucson with you. He’ll be convinced. He’ll even become famous as the first scientist to explore Mars through virtual reality.”
Herzberg nodded again. “All the glory with little of the risk. That might appeal to him. And his wife.”
3
VINCE EGAN
This isn’t going to be easy, Thrasher told himself as he climbed into the Citationjet. Vince Egan was already aboard, he knew. Now to confront Vince with what Ramona found out.
Thrasher wished he was a thousand miles away, or maybe hanging by his toenails on the lip of a seething hot volcano.
The Cessna was cheaper to operate than his old Learjet, but the cabin was so small that Thrasher had to duck his head as he went to the seat facing Vince’s.
“Hi, boss,” Egan said cheerfully. “What’s the occasion?”
“Occasion?” Thrasher asked as he buckled his seat belt.
“Why’d you ask me to fly to Portales with you?”
The plane’s engines whined to life as Thrasher tried to find words to start the interrogation.
“How’s the VR program going?”
Egan looked surprised. “I just handed you the monthly progress report. Everything’s fine. Polk and his flyboys are installing the equipment aboard Mars One, right on schedule.”
Nodding, Thrasher said, “Good.”
As the plane taxied out to the runway, Egan broke into a crooked grin and said, “Dr. Anders is in Australia, you know.”
Thrasher’s chin went up a notch. “She is? Since when?”
“Took off yesterday. Dougherty wants a VR system for Woomera after all, and since all the real work’s been done on our system, she figured she’d go to the Outback and see what it’s like.”
“Dougherty,” Thrasher muttered. “With a friend like him, who needs an enemy?”
“I think she’s interested in him,” said Egan. “Personally, I mean.”
“Figures.”
The plane hurtled down the runway and arrowed into the sky. Thrasher saw Hobby Airport dwindling and the vast flat scrubland of Texas stretching out to the horizon. The city of Houston and its sprawling suburbs were behind them, unseen; as far as the view from his window was concerned, they didn’t exist.
“So why’re you taking me along on this trip to Portales?” Egan asked again.
Thrasher bit his lip as he looked at the younger man. I’ve known Vince since he was a kid at MIT, he told himself. I’ve made him head of Thrasher Digital’s engineering department. Why would he want to screw me over?
“Vince,” he began. “About the accident on that first Delta IV launch . . .”
“The one from Cape Canaveral.”
“Yeah.” Thrasher took a deep breath, then blurted, “Maybe it wasn’t an accident.”
Egan frowned, uncomprehending. “Not an accident? You mean, somebody caused the explosion? On purpose?”
Thrasher nodded.
“I thought about that possibility myself, Art. I went over every detail of the accident report. Couldn’t find anything to put my finger on. The damned valve just malfunctioned.”
“That valve was inspected at least four different times before the flight.”
“Yeah, I now. But sometimes a glitch happens.”
“Or is made to happen.”
Egan stared at him as the plane climbed to its cruising altitude.
“Who the hell would sabotage the launch?”
“I’ve had somebody looking into that,” said Thrasher.
“He find anything?”
“She. And yes, she found something. Not much, but something.”
“What?”
“You made three deposits into your IRA account in the six weeks before the accident, and two more afterward. They total two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Egan looked as if he’d been smacked between the eyes by a two-by-four.
“Me? You looked into my bank accounts?”
“We looked into everybody’s,” Thrasher said, feeling miserable. “You’re the only one with such a big jump. Plus a couple of technicians out at the Cape who got ten thousand each.”
“And you think I . . .” Egan’s mouth hung open but no more words came out.
As reasonably as he could manage, Thrasher said, “We’re covering all the bases, Vince. I don’t want to believe that you’re involved in this, but I’ve got to get to the bottom of things.”
“And you think I fucked you over,” Egan said, practically snarling. “I’ve worked for you for damned near fifteen years and you think I’m a rat, a traitor!”
“Vince, please . . .”
“Go to hell, Art! My parents and Mary-Ellen’s grandmother pony up enough cash to keep us from defaulting on our home loan and you think I’m a goddamned saboteur! Fuck you!”
“Is that what it was?”
“Yeah, that’s what it was. You know the house we bought; you’ve had dinner with us, for chrissakes!”
“You were in danger of defaulting?”
“We bought the fucking palace at the peak of the market. Now the mortgage payments are way more than the place is worth.”
“But your salary . . . or you could have come to me . . .”
“Three kids in school. And you’ve got enough problems without me adding to them. Our families bailed us out. I didn’t blow up your damned rocket.”
Feeling miserable, Thrasher said, “I’m sorry, Vince. I didn’t want to believe you were responsible for the accident, but I had to check out all the possibilities.”
Egan looked away from him, his face white with anger. For long moments the only sound in the plane’s cabin was the muted drone of its engines.
“Vince, I apologize.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t want to think it was you, but I had to check out all the possibilities.”
“You already said that.”
More silence. Thrasher said to himself, I’ve lost him. He’ll never be able to work for me again. He thinks I don’t trust him.
Then Egan said, “So how are you going to find out who really fouled up the launch?”
“I don’t know,” said Thrasher.
“You said there were a couple of technicians at the Cape who got wads of money?”
“Ten thousand each.”
“Our guys?”
“No, they worked for ILS. Yamagata’s people.”
“Yamagata’s in Australia now.”
“That’s right.”
“Maybe we ought to track down those two guys and see what they’ve got to say for themselves.”
Thrasher’s heart soared at Vince’s use of the word “we.”
“Maybe we should,” he said.
4
ASTROLAUNCH
As he walked across the tarmac toward the waiting Astrolaunch plane, Thrasher told himself that this strange-looking hybrid aircraft would take him from California to Melbourne in less time than it had taken him to fly from Houston to Mohave.
Officially, leg
ally, he was not a passenger on a commercial vehicle. The FAA was still plodding through its interminable mountain of paperwork before certifying the Astrolaunch vehicle for commercial operation. Instead, Thrasher flew as a volunteer observer on an experimental flight—after signing dozens of insurance and safety waivers. If I get killed on this flight, he thought uneasily, my estate won’t get a cent out of it.
Might be a slick way to get rid of me, he realized.
The Astrolaunch vehicle was a strange sight, sitting in the bright, warm desert sunlight. To Thrasher, it looked like two ultramodernistic airplanes joined together at the wing, all curves and undulating lines. It reminded him of the Spanish architect, Gaudi, and his fantastic houses in Barcelona.
The long wings drooped almost to the ground. A pair of powerful turbojet engines hung beneath each of the wings. Between them, two snub-nosed fuselages extended back to a pair of raked tails. And between the fuselages hung the rocketplane that would carry him to Melbourne.
The strangely ungainly-looking carrier plane would lift its rocket-powered payload to nearly one hundred thousand feet, then release the rocketplane, which would zoom off to Melbourne. Flight time was estimated to be forty-eight minutes from the release point.
It could be even shorter if we crash, Thrasher thought.
Walking toward the craft with him were five people. Four of them—including one woman—were pilots. Two for the carrier plane, two for the rocket. The fifth was Bart Rutherford, looking very serious in zippered flight coveralls. Thrasher, walking beside him, was in his normal sports jacket and slacks.
Squinting up at Rutherford, silhouetted against the bright California sky, Thrasher asked, “You’ve flown this bird before, haven’t you?”
Rutherford shook his long blond locks. “Not this one. I’ve done two flights in the sister ship.”
“This isn’t the first flight for this bird, is it?” Thrasher asked, suddenly alarmed, remembering the old adage that one should never fly in an aircraft on its maiden voyage.
Rutherford grinned. “No, Art. You can relax. This bird’s flown twice already.”
“Not that I was worried,” Thrasher said weakly.
“Me neither.”
Two of the pilots—including the woman—climbed into the carrier plane’s left fuselage while Thrasher followed Rutherford and the two other pilots to the hatch leading into the rocketplane. Its stubby wings looked too small to keep it aloft, Thrasher thought. But then he realized that most of the bird’s flight through the atmosphere would be at hypersonic speed.
As he clambered up the ladder and through the hatch, Thrasher told himself he was risking his neck just to have an hour’s talk with Saito Yamagata. But it had to be done. He needed Yamagata’s help to track down the technicians who had been enriched by ten thousand dollars each at the time of the Delta IV explosion.
The two pilots went up forward to the cockpit and closed its hatch. Thrasher thought the interior of the spaceplane was surprisingly plush: six comfortable reclining chairs and padded bulkheads. The windows were small, but adequate. Rutherford gestured to the middle row of seats. Thrasher took the seat by the left window and buckled the safety harness over his shoulders. Rutherford sat across the aisle from him and did the same.
The takeoff was smoothly normal. “Plenty of acoustical insulation,” Rutherford said as they sped down the runway and into the sky. Thrasher looked down at the barren Mohave landscape: nothing but sand and scrub, except for the runway and its buildings. He saw the other Astrolaunch plane sitting in front of a hangar.
If and when the FAA finally gives its okay, he thought, Astrolaunch is going to make a mint out of long-range, high-speed commercial flights. There were rumors that both Boeing and Lockheed Martin were making offers to buy the company. And I won’t get a nickel out of it. He sighed inwardly. At least I’ll be able to get back and forth a lot faster.
The climb to release altitude was uneventful. Rutherford chattered about airspeed and angle of attack. Thrasher listened with half his attention, worrying about his upcoming conversation with Yamagata. Would Saito help him find the saboteur? Assuming there really was one. One of the technicians under suspicion was Japanese. Would Yamagata try to protect him out of some nationalistic loyalty?
Outside his window, Thrasher saw that the sky had turned dark, almost black. The ocean looked very far below, like a sheet of dimpled gray steel, dotted with rows of puffy white clouds.
“Release in one minute,” the pilot announced over the intercom speaker.
Rutherford leaned toward Thrasher and said, “Now the fun starts.”
The digital display on the bulkhead up front ticked down the seconds. As the number five flashed, Rutherford muttered, “Here we go.”
Suddenly they were falling. Thrasher felt his stomach drop away.
“Release on schedule,” came the pilot’s voice. Then, “Ignition.”
Thrasher felt a strong push in the small of his back and heard a thunderous roar. Rutherford gave out a whoop. “Yahoo!”
And they were zooming up, the ocean beneath them falling away speedily, the sky turning absolutely black. Thrasher could see the horizon was curved. The rocket’s bellowing howl seemed to diminish but still he felt the acceleration pushing against his back.
“Wow,” Thrasher managed to say.
“Cutoff in thirty seconds,” the pilot announced, his voice flat, calm, routine.
The push against his back disappeared and Thrasher’s arms floated up off the seat’s armrests.
“You’re in space, Art,” Rutherford said, grinning hugely. “How do you like it?”
Thrasher nodded weakly and forced a grin, while trying with all his concentration to keep his stomach from crawling up into his throat.
He managed to gasp, “You didn’t tell me . . . we’d be in zero gravity.”
“It’s only for a couple of minutes, Art. You’ll feel some weight once we start our descent and bite back into the atmosphere.” Rutherford seemed blithely unaffected by the lack of weight; he was enjoying the ride.
Thrasher remembered the first time he’d ridden a roller coaster, when he’d been five or six. Don’t throw up, he commanded himself silently, forcing his hands down to grip the seat’s armrests. Don’t make an ass of yourself.
“Re-entry,” announced the pilot.
The rocketplane began to buffet and Thrasher’s stomach settled back to its rightful place. He saw sparks flashing past his window, and then a panel slid over the glass, blocking his view.
The plane shuddered and bucked noticeably. Thrasher thought that zero-gravity wasn’t so bad, after all.
“Australia, here we come,” Rutherford said, with a chuckle.
Thrasher kept his mouth clamped shut. The shuddering, bumpy ride smoothed out at last and the window panels slid back. He was somewhat startled to see that it was fully night outside; they had left California in mid-morning.
“We’re passing New Zealand right about now,” Rutherford informed him. “South Island. Christchurch.”
“How fast are we going?”
Rutherford pointed to the digital display on the forward bulkhead. It read: MACH 4.8.
“We’re slowing down for the landing,” Rutherford said casually.
Thrasher remembered the old pilot’s adage: Flying is the second most exciting thing a man can do; landing is the first most exciting.
Down below Thrasher could see the lights of the city spreading across the landscape. They were still too high to make out individual buildings; it simply looked like a starscape of bright, twinkling lights beneath them.
The rocketplane descended smoothly, flared out, and touched down on the runway with no trouble. Thrasher saw the runway lights flashing past.
As they rolled toward the terminal, Rutherford asked, “How did you like it?”
Thrasher thought it over for a few heartbeats. “You’re going to have to give your passengers a pretty thorough orientation briefing before they fly this skyrocket.”
Rutherford laughed. “Yeah, I guess so. Although the younger set might buy tickets just for the ride.”
Which means I’m an old fart, Thrasher thought. But as he unbuckled his seat harness he realized, what the hell, I’m here in Melbourne in less than an hour.
Then it struck him. I’ve been in space! I’ve seen the curvature of the Earth and flown above the atmosphere. I’m almost an astronaut!
5
SAITO YAMAGATA
Yamagata met Thrasher at the airport and, with his usual bright smile, whisked him by limousine to a posh restaurant in Melbourne’s theater district. The two men were shown to a booth by a fawning maitre d’. They sat facing each other across the crisply creased white tablecloth and gleaming dinnerware. It was nearly one a.m. in Melbourne, yet the restaurant was almost filled with after-theater patrons enjoying a late supper. To Thrasher, it still felt like early afternoon; his stomach was ready for lunch.
As a waiter presented them with outsized menus, Thrasher said, “I really appreciate your taking the time to see me, Sai.”
“To what do I owe this whirlwind visit?” Yamagata asked cheerfully.
“We’ve been investigating the Delta IV accident.”
His smile dimming slightly, Yamagata said, “I thought the investigation was concluded. Your insurance carrier paid up, didn’t they?”
“Yes, they finally did.”
“So?”
“It might not have been an accident.”
Yamagata’s brows knit. “Surely the insurance company looked into that possibility.”
“Not hard enough,” said Thrasher. “Two of the ILS technicians working on the launch received lumps of money.”
“Lumps?”
“Five thousand dollars one week before the launch, and another five thou the week afterward.”
“And you think . . .”
“It sure looks suspicious to me, Sai.”
“Two of my technicians.” Yamagata’s smile was completely gone.
