Worlds in Chaos

by James P. Hogan

  “Yes. We all thought that show of yours today was terrific,” Sariena said. “The timing was perfect. It’ll give us a good opening theme for the talks. Gallian asked me to say thanks, and that he’s looking forward to meeting you in person at last too.” Gallian was the head of the Kronian mission.

  “You should thank the Air Force Space Command more than us,” Keene replied. “They picked today for their test. We just went along with it.”

  “So do you have any idea yet when we’ll be able to meet you?” Sariena asked.

  “Well, you’re probably going to be tied up with formal receptions and so forth for a while,” Keene said. “I try not to get involved in things like that. But I’ve made time to be in Washington for a few days, starting Monday. We could probably work something in then.”

  “I’ll let Gallian know,” Sariena said.

  Besides being a consultant to Amspace in Texas, Keene also acted as an advisor on space-related nuclear issues to various government offices, and maintained a Washington office for the purpose. He evaluated official reports and proposals, prepared recommendations, and testified before committees. A lot of congresspeople and other denizens of the Hill also consulted him privately for off-the-record views and background details. Most of them were better informed on issues that concerned them than the required public posturing sometimes allowed them to admit.

  He looked at the face that he knew only from screens, outwardly so composed, yet what kind of agitation and uncertainties—fear even—had to be churning inside? In all her adult life, she had never seen an ocean, breathed a planet’s air, or walked under an open sky. She had been taken to Kronia as a child in the early days when the original base, named Kropotkin, was constructed on the moon Dione. Now she was returning for the first time as one of the deputation that the Saturn colony had sent to Earth following the Athena event to press the same case that Keene had summarized to Feld.

  Keene raised his coffee mug. “And before any of those guys in tuxedos have a chance to get started with their toasts and speeches, let us be the first to say, Welcome to Earth, finally. The main thing you have to remember is that leaving the outside door open is okay. But don’t try walking on the blue stuff.”

  Sariena laughed. “Will you be able to make it to Washington too, Joyce?”

  “Sorry. Not for a while, anyhow. I’m stuck up in this grimy can for another three weeks.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yeah, right, okay—you’ve got me. I was forgetting. What’s three weeks in space to you guys?”

  “But their accommodation is probably a bit more roomy,” Keene said to Joyce.

  “When are you going back down, Lan?” Sariena asked.

  “In a couple of hours, probably. The firm’s bus is up here waiting already.” He gave Joyce a sideways look. “Then it’ll be a shower and a swim, clean clothes . . .” He watched the look forming on her face. “And maybe a good steak and some wine out somewhere nice tonight.”

  “Pig,” Joyce muttered hatefully.

  The Amspace minishuttle detached from Space Dock a little under three hours later. As the craft fell away, Keene was able to catch a glimpse of the Osiris passing above as an elongated bead of light in its higher orbit. Low to one side, partly eclipsed by the curve of Earth’s dark side, stretched the awesome spectacle of Athena’s braided tail streaming in the solar wind as the supercomet fell toward the Sun.

  4

  Amspace’s headquarters offices were located in Corpus Christi, southeast Texas, on North Water Street, a couple of blocks inland from the marinas on Corpus Christi Bay, at the fashionable, downtown end of Shoreline Boulevard. The company’s main manufacturing, engineering, and research center was twenty miles south of the city at Kingsville, with a launch facility thirty miles farther south at a place called San Saucillo, on the plain of sandy flats and sage brush between Laredo and the Gulf. It was Oil Country, and much of the company’s founding impetus had derived from the tradition of independence rooted in private capital and sympathetic local politics. All the same, taking an initiative toward developing the longer-term potential of space was a contentious and uncertain issue, and as insurance the corporation was constructing a second launch complex over the border in Mexico, on a highland plateau known as Montemorelos. Besides affording backup capability, Montemorelos would provide a means of continuing operations in the event that San Saucillo was shut down by politics.

  It was late morning when the minishuttle carrying Keene and the other two NIFTV crew, along with several others from Space Dock who had been involved in the test mission, landed at the Saucillo site under a sun beating down through a dust haze that tinted the plain blue with distance. A bus carried the arrivals from the pad area to the assembly and administration complex at the far end of the landing field, where there was an interview session with waiting TV reporters. From there, a company helicopter flew them to the main plant at Kingsville for a post-mission debriefing over a burgers-and-fries lunch with senior technical staff in the office of the Technical Vice President, Harry Halloran. A lot of numbers and preliminary flight data were bandied about, and the NIFTV’s performance analyzed. The consensus was that the demonstration had comfortably exceeded expectations.

  By rights, that ought to have been good news. But such were the circumstances of the times that negative reactions could be expected as a virtual certainty too. And, indeed, by afternoon the protest had already started, ranging from diplomatic notes being delivered in Washington to poster-waving in the street outside Amspace’s Corpus Christi offices. All the news channels were airing comments or polling views, and the company’s switchboard and electronic mail servers were overloading. So if it was true that there really is no such thing as bad publicity, and since the whole object had been to get attention, then there could be no serious grounds for complaint.

  As it turned out, many of the incoming messages were supportive. The British government expressed the hope that the demonstration might mark the beginning of a turnaround in world opinion that was long overdue. A Russian corporation revealed that it was working along similar lines to the NIFTV and would be flying a test engine of its own within six months. By three o’clock, Amspace had received twenty-six inquiries from hopeful would-be pilots. The meeting ended with the hope that the coming weekend might afford a forced cooling-off period. After that, the case the Kronians had come to argue for Earth expanding its space effort would endorse Amspace’s position strongly. So all in all, events seemed to have worked themselves in quite a timely fashion.

  While people were still collecting papers together and shutting down laptops, Wallace Lomack, the company’s Chief Design Engineer, came over to where Keene was sitting with Joe Elms and Ricardo. “It was the Rambler all over again, Lan,” he said jovially. “Right?”

  Keene looked up, momentarily nonplussed. “Hi, Wally. What?”

  “A long time ago, you told us that story about the Nash Rambler that you souped up and wiped out everything on the highway with back when you were a student. The stunt today was the same thing all over again, right? That was what gave you the idea.”

  Finally, the penny dropped. “Oh, you still remember that story, eh?” Keene said.

  “I never heard that one,” Joe murmured, tidying up his notes.

  “Lan’s history of dreaming up crazy schemes and getting everyone to go along with them goes all the way back,” Wally replied. Then, to Keene, “I bet you never thought it would come to anything like this, though, eh?”

  “You’re right. I never thought it would. . . .” Keene shrugged. “So what are you up to over the weekend, Wally? Anything wild and exciting?”

  Lomack left his tie loosened and slipped on his jacket, not bothering trying to fasten it over his ample midriff. “Oh, bit of boating, bit of fishing—something to amuse the grandkids, you know. How about you, Lan?”

  “We’re the mission crew. We don’t have no weekend,” Ricardo put in, next to Keene.

  “They’ve giv
en you the whole of tomorrow morning to rest up,” Keene pointed out.

  “Oh, yeah. How could I forget that?”

  “Then Les has got a press conference organized in town that we have to be at,” Keene replied to Wally. He was referring to Les Urkin, head of Amspace’s public relations. “Then I arranged to be in Washington next week. Things are no doubt about to start flapping there.”

  “When are you flying up there?” Wally inquired.

  “Probably Sunday night.”

  Joe raised his eyebrows and made an O in the air with a thumb and forefinger. “Aha! And planning to meet the delectable Saturnian, I’ll bet. Can’t say I blame you, though, Lan.”

  “Sure, if the schedules work out,” Keene agreed. “Why not? We’ve been talking to them long enough.”

  “Is a romance between the planets about to happen?” Ricardo asked, grinning.

  Keene shook his head. “Not me. I’ve been there already. Burned, bitten, and shy. You know how it is.”

  Wally thought about that, then made a face. “Well, the first two, I might buy. Anyhow, have fun, young feller.”

  “You too, Wally,” Keene said. “And don’t let those grandkids tip over your boat. You’re needed back here for the profile evaluations next week.”

  Lomack moved away, while Keene finished stuffing his papers into a document case. As a matter of fact, he had forgotten all about his student escapade with the Nash Rambler. What had given him the idea for showing off the NIFTV when the Air Force was testing its APU was something he’d read about Charles Parsons, the English inventor of the steam turbine, who had used the celebration of the Queen’s Jubilee in 1897 o arouse the interest of the British Admiralty. On that occasion, the Royal Navy had assembled 173 warships to be reviewed by the Royal Yacht and a grand flotilla of craft containing the Lords of the Admiralty, various colonial premiers, the Diplomatic Corps, and members from both Houses of Parliament; but Parsons stole the show by roaring around the fleet in his 2,000 horsepower turbine-driven yacht Turbinia at thirty-four knots, which was faster than anything the Navy could send in chase. In fact, it was the fastest boat in the world at the time. Such was the spirit of the age, that the British Admiralty had responded by promptly ordering two turbine-powered ships. As he zipped up the document case and rose from his chair, Keene wondered if they could expect a similar display of magnanimity and perspicacity from the Defense Department.

  After leaving Amspace, Keene stopped by his own company to show his face and check on how things had gone during his absence. Protonix occupied a five-room suite in an office park on the south side of Corpus Christi, near the interchange between the Crosstown Expressway and South Padre Island Drive. Besides himself as president, it had four other staff, all female. Vicki was Keene’s associate and second-in-command; Celia acted as her assistant; Judith had a math Ph.D. and looked after the computers, while Karen was the receptionist, secretary, and general errand-runner. The engineers at Amspace referred to the firm enviously as Keene’s Harem. In fact, as a point of professionalism and out of the sheer practical consideration of getting things done in an environment that was complicated enough already, Keene kept business strictly separate from anything personal. As with marriage, he had suffered the consequences of those kinds of involvements in earlier years. Sometimes he thought that the first half of his adult life had served partly as a rehearsal for the second, in which he was finally managing to get a few things right.

  He was greeted with laughter and applause, a bottle of Bushmills Black Bush Irish whiskey, and an old astronaut-style cap from the souvenir shop at the Johnson Space Center in Houston. The girls had watched the demo that morning and said it was terrific. Karen thought that Keene looked great on TV—that unshaven, mildly haggard look was exactly what movie producers were hunting for. He ought to apply for a part, she told him. Keene assured her that there had been nothing mild about it.

  Although Protonix hadn’t been named in any of the coverage, the political and media insiders who knew Keene were already clamoring to get ahold of him, and Shirley, who ran the office that he used in Washington, had called with a tentative list of meetings scheduled for Monday. But the big news was that Naomi had presented Celia with five kittens: two tabby, one black, one gray, and one “kind of stripey something,” Celia said. . . . Oh, and yes, apart from that, Judith had left early to attend the computer show in Dallas tomorrow; there were problems with machining some of the parts for the reactor Westinghouse was fabricating in San Diego, that Vicki needed to talk to him about next week; the guy in Japan who had done the thermal studies had downloaded the reports that Keene was interested in; and the parking lot would be closed next Friday and over the weekend for resurfacing. When a few more minor items were disposed of, Vicki followed Keene into his office with a list of things to check for Monday, leaving Karen and Celia clearing desks, organizing purses, and exchanging plans for the weekend.

  Vicki had light brown, almost orange hair that contracted itself into wiry curls no matter how she tried to comb or wave it, and a freckled, angular face accentuated by a pointy nose, sharp chin, and straight mouth. Her body was petite and lean-limbed, shaped by that chemistry that can eat anything all day and metabolize energy without an ounce of gain. She lived for her work, and she was good. Originally a radiation physicist at Harvard, she had met Keene when he moved there to become a theoretician from conducting plasma physics research at General Atomic in San Diego. She had grown disillusioned with the academic scientific community at about the same rate as he, and rejoined him back in the real world soon after he quit, moved south to Texas, and set up the business that later became Protonix. She had a fourteen-year-old son called Robin, whom she had raised from toddlerhood by herself, and Keene had become something of a father figure as well as a business colleague.

  “So . . .” Vicki stared across the office from one of the two visitor chairs below a wall of framed pictures of launch vehicles and satellites, including a spectacular shot of the Kronian Osiris.

  “So,” Keene echoed. They were both flopped loosely, unwinding, happy to forget the week’s routine events for the time being.

  “You get to go again. I told you, the others can take care of the office. Why do I get this impression that male animals are fickle?” One of their standing jokes was that Keene would get Vicki up on a mission too one day. It had long been a dream of hers to go into space.

  Keene put on a mock pained look. “If I didn’t know you better, I might think you didn’t believe me.”

  “How can you say that? You know I have undying trust.”

  “And I have an image of mystique to keep up. You know how the guru thing works: always promise nirvana tomorrow.”

  Vicki turned her eyes resignedly toward the ceiling and changed the subject. “Did I hear you say they’re actually giving you tomorrow morning off to rest up?”

  “The galley slaves have to get some air sometime,” Keene replied. “Les has got a press conference fixed for the afternoon.”

  “You want to stop by for a late breakfast at the house on your way in? Robin has been asking after you. I think he wants to show you some of the latest that he’s been getting into.”

  Keene rubbed his chin. “Sure, why not? . . . So how is Robin?”

  “Just fine.”

  “What’s he been getting into this time?”

  “Dinosaurs. Apparently they couldn’t have existed.”

  “Oh, really? A mass hallucination, then. . . . So how come?”

  “It gets involved. Why not ask him tomorrow?”

  “Okay.”

  Vicki searched her mind for anything else. “Did you talk to Sariena? I was at Kingsville when they redirected the call from the Osiris. That was just after your spot with John Feld ended.”

  “Yes, I got it,” Keene replied. “She just wanted to let us know that Gallian was happy with the way things went; also, that they’d be on their way down to the surface pretty soon.”

  “They’re down,” Vick
i said. “It was on the news this afternoon—while you were at the debriefing. Big reception dinner at the White House tonight. Everybody who thinks they’re somebody is going to have to be there.” She tossed a hand out in a motion indicating both of them. “So how come we didn’t get invitations?”

  “We left the rarified academic heights, don’t you remember? People would probably worry that we might show up in coveralls, carrying wrenches.” Keene rubbed his chin. “We could stop for a quick one while it’s still happy hour at the Bandana,” he offered. “Not exactly black tie, but do you think it would do instead?”

  Vicki smiled and gave a snort. “The company might be an improvement, though—I’ll say that.” She stretched, held the position for a few seconds, then relaxed. “So never mind the pageantry over the weekend. How will things go when they get down to the real talking? Any guesses? . . . I know we’ve got a lot of the world’s attention, but is it really going to take any notice? I mean, okay, Athena’s there. But most people are treating it like a spectator sport, not something that actually connects to their lives. Are the Kronians going to be able to change that?”

  “They must think they stand a chance, otherwise they’d hardly have come this far.” Keene showed his palms briefly. “All they have to do is get the powers that shape science in this world to see the obvious.”

  “Wow,” Vicki said dryly. “Now I really feel better.”

  Kronia’s scientists had reached the conclusion that the conventional picture of a stable and orderly Solar System repeating its motions like clockwork since the time of its formation, was—simply put—wrong. Cataclysmic encounters between planetary and other bodies had, they maintained, occurred through into recent historic times, and there was no reason to suppose that such events would not continue. The Kronian leaders accepted this view and for years had been exhorting Earth to put a greater investment of effort and resources into spreading a significant human presence across the Solar System. For as long as the human race remained concentrated in one place, they insisted, it was vulnerable, literally, to extinction. In fact, they claimed it had almost happened in the not very distant past.