by Homer Hickam
Medaris has been instructing me and Virgil on a lot of things we may need to know when he’s on the surface. Shuttle systems, how to operate the RMS, things like that. These were the things Cassidy would have done but now it’s up to Virgil and me. I would avoid it if I could, but it makes sense to learn as much as I can if Jack is really going to try to land on the moon. The truth is he might not come back. I might as well accept the reality of it. To have any chance of ever getting home, I have to learn all I can, work with Virgil and Medaris, no matter how hateful he is. It is just us out here.
Us.
I like the sound of that.
CECIL’S COMPROMISE
Attorney General’s Office, Justice Department
Cecil was led once again into the office of the attorney general and told to wait. He passed the time looking at the AG’s family photos, a grim lot of farmers in coveralls and chintz. No awards or diplomas decorated the wall. She favored agrarian scenes. Then she was there, pointing at a chair. She looked tired, heavy bags under her hazel eyes. “Sit,” she ordered.
He sat while she hunkered down behind a big oak desk. “Well, Velocci. None of my boys and girls can figure out how to break your contract. It’s legal. And our interrogation of astronaut Janet Barnes has shown that Cassidy’s death was an accident, so it’s unlikely a murder rap would stick to your clients either.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“However,” she continued, “assuming they survive this idiocy, which I think is doubtful, they’re still going to jail. MEC deliberately endangered astronauts in the launch tower elevator. Tacked on to that is the destruction of considerable government property.” She consulted a file. “A data line at Kennedy Space Center plus three shuttle main engines and other unauthorized alterations to the shuttle Columbia. Estimated damages are in the neighborhood of five billion dollars. Since it is clear now that they are headed to the moon, unspecified in your contract, it appears they may also be in violation of the 1967 Outer Space Treaty, which stipulates no operation may occur on or near the lunar surface without consultation with the international community.”
Cecil scratched his head. “Excuse me, ma’am, but I believe the treaty does not make such consultation an absolute requirement. It is caveated, as I understand it, to say that it should be done “to the greatest extent feasible and practicable.’ My announcement on an international television show accomplished that.”
“Don’t con me, Velocci,” Hawthorne retorted. “Going on Larry King Live was hardly in the spirit of the treaty.”
“That may be, ma’am, but with all due respect I don’t believe my clients have broken any international laws.” Cecil dug a document out of his crammed briefcase. “I think you should be aware of this: it is a copy of the incorporating papers for the Medaris Engineering Company in Grand Cayman, British West Indies. MEC is not an American company but Caymanian. And Grand Cayman is not a signatory to the Outer Space Treaty.”
“You really think this kind of crap would hold up in court?”
“I think it would hold up for many, many years of appeals.”
To Cecil’s amazement Hawthorne allowed a toothy grin to slide across her plain face. “By God, if I ever get into trouble, I want you to be my attorney, Mr. Velocci!”
Cecil blushed and looked down at his lap. “Thank you, ma’am.”
When he looked up, she was no longer grinning. “All right, Velocci, let’s get down to cases. All smoke and mirrors aside, we’ll find something on your clients that’s going to stick. Considering what they’ve done, how’s it going to look if we don’t?”
It was Cecil’s turn to surprise the AG. “I understand you’ve been looking into the Puckett Security Services. Find anything useful yet?”
Hawthorne grunted. “That’s not anything I can talk about, Velocci. But we’re interested in PSS, yeah.”
“They tried to burn Jack out. Must be pretty bad hombres.”
“The baddest,” Hawthorne said, and then was silent.
Cecil brightened, as if an idea had just popped into his mind. “May I make a suggestion for a compromise—off the record, of course?”
Hawthorne shrugged. “Fire away.”
“I fully understand that you can’t just let my clients go—a bad precedent and all that—but what if we were willing to stipulate that there were certain... irregularities in the manner in which a portion of the contract was performed? I’m speaking specifically of the “modification’ of the data lines at the Cape Canaveral launch complex.”
“You mean cop a plea?”
“I think a fine equal to the amount of repairs would be appropriate.”
“What about the damage to the shuttle?”
“We believe there’s been no damage done to the shuttle. The modifications undertaken by MEC have in fact improved her. She was a vehicle capable of only low earth orbit, but now she’s one that can travel to the moon.”
Hawthorne pursed her thin lips. “Interesting logic. I’ll need some time to think about what you’ve said.” She waved her hand in dismissal.
“May I go home? The wife and kids have been staying in a motel all this time for safety. We’ve all had it. We just want to go back to our island.”
She leaned her head on her hand, tapped her temple. “Yes, but don’t go anywhere where I can’t find you.”
“No problem.” He headed for the door, trying to imagine where on the planet he could go that this woman couldn’t track him down.
“Velocci?”
Cecil stopped at the door. Almost made it! “Ma’am?”
“What’s your plans—after all this?”
“I’m never going to leave Cedar Key again.”
“Sounds like a wise move. Any beachfront property down there available for an old warhorse like me?”
Cecil raised his eyebrows and dug into his briefcase. This MEC gig was just a one-shot affair. A man still has to make a living.... “Now that you mention it, I just happened to have these brochures....”
THE EXALTED LEADER
Farside Control
Starbuck assembled his troops before the refurbished Farside Control Center. On the front wall hung two big virtual panels to give a visual representation of both the Farside controlled vehicles and the target, i.e., Columbia. A tier of six control consoles stood in a line in front of the panels. Behind them, on a pedestal, sat a bank of three consoles canted so that the person in the single chair behind them could swivel easily to see what each screenload held. The nameplate on the chair read EXALTED LEADER.
Starbuck, in a King Arthur costume, his favorite, reviewed his troops, ten programmers plus one guard, all members of the local Society for Creative Anachronism, each in the costume of his or her choice. The guard had stretched the concept way past medieval times, appearing in the full-dress regalia of a Klingon warrior from the Star Trek series.
“To victory!” a knight cried, raising his wooden sword.
“And may might make right!”
“And to our blessed king,” another knight exhorted while the ladies curtsied.
Starbuck, choking with pride, looked over his people. “God bless California!” was all his emotions would allow him to say.
HIGH EAGLE’S DISCOVERY
Columbia
Columbia was one hundred thousand miles out from earth when Penny decided to check her cell culture experiment again. She examined each one, photographing as she went, carefully marking each sample, and taking notes. Finally she clicked the last sample, the contaminated one, into the microscope tray and took a look, not expecting much. What she saw amazed her. “Medaris, get down here!” she yelled.
He poked his head through the hatch. “What?”
“Look!” She pointed at her microscope.
Jack came headfirst through the hatch, did an easy somersault, and settled in behind the microscope. He put his eye to it, fiddling with its adjustment knobs. “So?” he said after lifting his eye away.
“Medaris,” Penny said, her e
yes wide, “I think it’s a neural pathway fragment!”
He looked into the eyepiece again. “You’re growing a spinal cord?”
Penny nodded vigorously. “Yes! How can you be so blas é about it? I’ve got to let researchers back on earth know about this!”
Jack shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, High Eagle. I don’t want to rattle any cages back there.”
“Look, Medaris, what I have here could be more important than anything else on this mission!”
He shook his head. “Think about it, High Eagle. What good would it do to tell the ground? You can’t send them any photographs. The SAREX has no way of sending pictures even if you had a way of developing them, which you don’t. And let me ask you something. With all the accelerations this culture has had on it, how could you ever hope to duplicate it?”
She glared at him. “You just don’t get it, do you? It’s very clear what’s happened. A lucky accident! The combination of sheep nerve cells and frog growth DNA in an incubator in a microgravity environment has produced something remarkable. Space just might be the place to grow nerve tissue for paralysis victims, Medaris! This could be a suicide mission—don’t argue with me! It could be! We need to get this news back to earth while we’re still in shape to do it!”
Medaris looked at her, then sighed as if she were the source for every problem known to all mankind. But he opened up the SAREX. “All right, High Eagle. You win.” He keyed a greeting and waited. Nothing happened. “There’s no response. Go look at the earth.”
“Why?”
“Just do it, High Eagle. Tell me what you see.”
Penny relented, went to the flight deck, looked, and returned. “It’s still there,” she said.
“What hemisphere did you see?”
“I saw Africa.”
“That’s what I thought. SAREX requires a straight line of sight. We’ll have to wait until the planet rotates.”
“When will that be?”
“About ten hours.” He put his thumbs in his ears, wiggled his fingers, and stuck his tongue out at her. “We should still be around as long as your spinal cord doesn’t grow scales and start chasing us around the shuttle.”
Penny made a face back at him. “Very funny, Medaris.”
He shrugged. “We do the best we can with the material we’ve got.”
Ten hours later, as promised, Jack tried the SAREX again, Penny hovering over his shoulder. A message came back. MEC was there. “It’s all yours,” he said, moving aside.
She entered her message, requesting retransmittal to her sponsoring pharmaceutical lab. MEC answered immediately.
WILL FORWARD. EXCITING STUFF.
The next message that came was not for her but for Medaris.
HOUSTON HAS GONE SILENT. NO NEWS FROM PERLMAN. CECIL CHECKED IN. SAID NOT TO WORRY.
Jack replied.
TOO LATE TO WORRY. ALL WELL HERE AND ON TIMELINE. MOON IS GROWING LARGER BY THE MINUTE. WISH YOU COULD SEE IT.
BRING A PIECE OF IT BACK FOR US.
YOU GOT IT.
SHIRLEY’S REPORT
Catoctin Mountains, Maryland
It had been the devil’s worst time trying to track him down, but Shirley finally found the vice president. Vanderheld had gone off on a field trip into the mountains of Maryland, looking for some kind of rare bird. She found him in a pretty green meadow scalloped between two forested hills. Breathlessly, she told him all she’d learned at the Lunar Curatorial Lab.
“I believe I told you it wasn’t necessary to continue your research on Medaris,” the Veep said, grimacing. He had his hand in the small of his back. He’d hurt it tripping over a log, he’d said.
“I went on my own time using my own money, sir,” Shirley said.
“And so you discovered Medaris is going after helium-3,” Vanderheld said. “I’ve heard that already. Interesting information but it doesn’t change much. He still hijacked a shuttle.”
Shirley took a deep breath, knowing, no matter what their relationship might be, she was about to overstep her bounds. “Sir, I think you must help the people aboard Columbia and help this Dr. Perlman, wherever he is. I believe he and Jack Medaris are trying to do something wonderful for this country.”
Vanderheld limped over to a rock outcropping and took a load off. He lifted the straps of both of the heavy cameras over his head, set them gently beside him. “All right, Shirley,” he said. “Let’s hear your reasoning.”
Shirley explained all that Koszelak had said at the Lunar Curatorial Lab, how the fire beads of Apollo 17 held helium-3, how it could be used in a fusion reactor. Then she told him about her research on Perlman, how he had published the results of his last test with the helium-3 he’d managed to get off the old Apollo rocks. “Fusion energy is so clean, that’s the wonderful part,” she said with the breathless energy of a convert. “Fossil fuel will become obsolete, all those dirty oil fields and coal mines. And fusion energy can be made to be cheap. Just think of it, sir, the advantages will accrue to poor people with access to cheap energy. Sir, fusion is going to provide for nearly everything you’ve fought for all your life!”
Vanderheld listened, his eyes closed against the bright afternoon sun. When she’d finished, he kept his eyes closed for a minute, his brow furrowed in thought. “It saddens me,” he said, finally, “that you seem to have forgotten the World Energy Treaty, Shirley. WET will do all that you give fusion credit for. There will be a board and I will be on it, and I will make certain that no decision is made on energy that does not take into account the poor and the downtrodden. I am going to make certain that the provision of energy everywhere across the planet is fair and equitable. This I will do without introducing a dangerous new energy form into the world.”
“But, sir, fusion is nonpolluting. It’s—”
Vanderheld held up his hand. “That’s what they said about fission energy too. Just a few by-products. It turned out it was plutonium. A trace of plutonium can kill millions. I fear you’ve fallen prey to the fusion propaganda machine.”
“No, sir, I studied a hundred different independent sources,” she said, hoping she sounded braver than she felt. “Sir, I know you worked hard on WET but I think this could be even better. The way I see it is that we may be about to embark on a new age of peace and prosperity. No more wars for oil, no more pollution, energy for all, even the poorest of nations. I think that’s wonderful. I was certain you’d think it was wonderful too!”
Vanderheld slowly shook his head back and forth. “No. You’re wrong. Fusion using helium-3 from the moon will introduce an age of nations vying against nations for this new gold in this new world. There may very well be war in space.”
“You expect there to be a war for the moon?” Shirley asked, shaken. “Who will be the combatants?”
Vanderheld looked up into the sky, squinting. “To start, Russia, China, Europe, Japan, India, Great Britain, the United States, all the spacefaring nations. Great Britain, I expect, would throw in with us. How the other countries would divide themselves up I’m not certain. Japan would be inclined toward us, maybe. We’ve treated them pretty shabbily the last few years. China and Russia would be tempted to work together, but, based on their traditional animosity toward one another, that might prove to be a difficult alliance, might even spark a war between them. Europe would probably try to go it alone but eventually they’d have to choose between us or the Russians, neither choice particularly palatable to them. France, for one, has spent trillions on thermonuclear energy. Fusion energy would destroy that investment overnight. The world structure would be knocked into a cocked hat. The results would probably be quite bloody.”
“Sir, I think you’re wrong,” Shirley said. “I see competition, sure. Mankind is at its best when it’s moving out, striving to gain advantage. But war? Space is too big a place for war. I think we’ll stop looking inward, recognize that all our worries about Social Security and people wearing helmets on ski slopes and all this internal bick
ering would be a thing of the past. Great strides would be taken that wouldn’t be abided during normal times, strides that would advance all areas of technology and science.”
Vanderheld’s eyes turned sorrowful. “You are indeed a dreamer, Shirley,” he said softly, kindly. He waved his hand, sighed. “What is it you want me to do?”
“I got a call from Professor Koszelak. Shuttle Mission Control is closed down. The shuttle is at the moon. Let me go to Houston, get Mission Control fired back up. Let’s not let Americans get killed up there. Let’s help them bring us this new gold.”
Vanderheld nodded, started to get up, then slumped back down. Shirley went to help him. “No, I’m fine,” he said. He struggled to his feet. “I just get stiff. Go on with you, Shirley. Go help your gold hunters. I think you got smitten with this Jack Medaris while you were out there. Am I off the mark?”
Shirley hadn’t thought of it that way. As she had so often learned, the vice president could see right through her. It made her happy. They were back in synch. “You could be right, sir. Could you sign this?” She produced a document from her briefcase. “It authorizes me to reopen the SMC.”
Vanderheld laughed, stretched out his hand for the piece of paper, searched his shirt pocket for a pen. “You are something, Shirley Grafton,” he said. “A cheerleader for a new paradigm in a new world.”
PENNY’S LOG (2)
Columbia
We are more than 100,000 miles out as I write this. We are slowing now, only going a little less than 4,000 miles per hour. Two days ago, when the Big Dog engine pushed us out of earth orbit, we were going 25,000 miles per hour. We are in the influence of three magnets, Medaris says, the sun, the earth, and the moon. It is earth that is slowing us, the weaker pull of the moon only just now being felt. It will cause us to speed up again later today.
