by Ben Bova
Thrasher walked past a table full of electronics equipment to reach her and gave Kristin a friendly hug.
Disengaging, she gestured toward Dougherty, “Art, this is—”
“Alan Dougherty, I know.” He stuck his hand out to the Aussie. “I’m—”
“Arthur D. Thrasher, I know,” said Dougherty, beaming a broad smile up at him. “You’re just the man I want to see.”
“Funny,” said Thrasher. “You’re just the man I want to see.”
“So let’s find a pub and get acquainted,” Dougherty suggested.
“Good idea.” Turning to Kristin, Thrasher said, “Let us take you away from all this.”
She made a sad little frown. “I’m afraid I can’t get away. Too much to do.”
“I want to put her to work for me, settin’ up a VR link from Woomera.”
“The lady’s already working for me.”
“’Bout Mars. I know.”
Kristin said, “It won’t take much of our time to set up a system for Alan.”
“You could come to Australia, y’know,” Dougherty said cheerfully. “See the Outback, Ayer’s Rock, the Opera House over in Sydney.”
Feeling more than a little nettled, Thrasher said, “I hate to sound proprietary, but the VR system is funded by Thrasher Digital Corporation. We own the rights.”
Dougherty grinned up from his wheelchair. “Well, we expect to pay for ‘em, mate. We’re not going to rob you.”
Thrasher glanced at Kristin and wondered how true the Aussie’s words were.
Dougherty drove his motorized wheelchair through the blazing June morning, Thrasher working up a sweat to keep up with him. By the time they found Dirtbag’s bar and grill at the edge of the campus, Thrasher felt grateful for the cold blast of air conditioning in the joint’s dim interior.
They settled in a booth toward the rear of the place, Dougherty sliding onto the wooden bench from his wheelchair, and ordered beers from the young waitress. Dougherty asked for Killian’s Red.
“Not Foster’s?” Thrasher asked, surprised.
“Nah. That’s for export to you Yanks and the bloody Poms. Back home we drink Victoria.”
“I like dark beer,” said Thrasher, as the waitress placed a bottle of Negra Modelo before him. Somehow he felt he didn’t want to tell this Aussie about his preference for ginger beer.
“So you want to go to Mars,” Dougherty said, after a healthy slug of Killian’s.
Thrasher nodded. “And I hear you want to establish an international launching base at Woomera.”
Dougherty nodded. “Got a big open area in the Outback just sittin’ there in the bleedin’ sun. Seems to me we could use it to launch commercial rockets.”
“Could you handle Delta IVs?”
“Can’t handle anything right now, but give us a year—and some money—and we’ll launch anything you want.”
“What about safety factors? You’re pretty far inland, aren’t you? Isn’t there a danger of spent stages falling on a town or a farm or something?”
Dougherty laughed. “You haven’t been to the Outback, have you? There’s nothing around for a thousand klicks in every direction, just about. Nearest town’s Coober Pedy, and that’s mostly underground.”
“I heard about Coober Pedy,” said Thrasher. “That’s where they mine opals, isn’t it?”
“Right. I’d like to take that Dr. Anders there, let her pick some opals for herself.”
Thrasher’s chin went up, but he forced himself to ignore the comment. Hunching forward over the scarred wooden table between them, he suggested, “Mars, Incorporated is planning on nine Delta IV launches over the next two and a half years. Could you handle them?”
“Woosh! That’s a bit tight.”
“International Launch Services will work the launches,” Thrasher said, making a mental note to ask Yamagata if that was possible.
“How soon’s your first launch supposed to go?”
“How soon can you get ready?”
Dougherty bit his lip, thinking fast. “You’ll foot the bill for settin’ up the launch pad?”
“We can do that. But what about the other facilities you’ll need? Control center, storage, all that crap they call infrastructure.”
“Already underway. We’ve got money for that, but Delta IVs need a bigger launch pad than we’ve got.”
“Okay, we’ll pay for the new pad.”
“Better make it two. That’s what the rocket guys call redundancy.”
“Two, then,” said Thrasher, picturing Dave Kahn’s withered face when he sprang that bill on him.
“Okay, good.”
“So how soon will you be able to launch?”
“If we go balls out,” said Dougherty, “nine months. Twelve, on the outside.”
“I need it ready in six months, nine on the outside.”
Dougherty focused his pale blue eyes on Thrasher for a long, thoughtful moment. Then he said firmly, “Six months, then.”
“Done.” Thrasher extended his hand across the table.
But Dougherty did not take his hand. “There’s another part to the price, mate. I want to go.”
“Go?”
“To Mars.”
Thrasher gaped at him. “In a wheelchair?” he blurted.
“I’ll be on my feet, good as new, by the time you’re ready to head for Mars. Stem cell treatments, you know.”
“But we don’t have room for a passenger.”
“I’m a pretty decent engineer. I can train up, be part of the crew.”
Thrasher stared at the Aussie. The man was dead serious, he realized.
“I’d have to bump one of the crew,” he muttered.
“Bump ‘im. I want to go. If I don’t, the Woomera deal is off.”
“That’s blackmail!”
Dougherty grinned boyishly. “Naw, it’s extortion.” Hunching over the table, he offered, “I’ll throw in the two launch pads. Find other funding for ‘em. Deal?”
“We get the Delta IV pads for free?”
“Right.” It sounded like “roit.”
Reluctantly, Thrasher put out his hand again. “Okay, deal. But only if the medics say you’re okay to go.”
“Done!” Dougherty grabbed Thrasher’s hand in a powerful grip and pumped it vigorously.
Wringing his hand, Thrasher said, “Now that you have a firm customer you won’t need a virtual reality link to advertise your facility, will you?”
Looking suddenly nonplussed, the Aussie muttered, “Maybe not.” Then he brightened again. “You just talked yourself out of a paying customer for your VR system, mate.”
“That’s all right,” Thrasher said, laughing. “The important thing is getting to Mars.” Silently he added, and keeping your paws off Kristin.
12
HOUSTON
“Australia?”
Even in the phone’s small screen, Thrasher could see Jessie Margulis’ face go white with shock.
“It’s the answer to our prayers, Jess,” he said to the engineer as he leaned back in his desk chair and planted his booted feet on the desktop.
“But . . . Australia?”
“We can forget about Meek and the NRC and all the goddamned government’s red tape. We’ll set up a firm schedule to launch those Delta IV payloads and stick to it.”
“All the way out in Australia?”
“Jess, we aim to go thirty-some million miles to Mars. What’s a few thousand miles compared to that?”
“I didn’t think the Woomera range was still operational,” Margulis objected.
“It’s not. But it will be, in six months. I need you to work up a launch schedule. And set up transportation for the Mars One modules to Woomera.”
“ILS is going to handle the launches?”
“Yep. I’ve got a call in to Yamagata, right after I hang up with you.”
Margulis shook his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Art.”
“It doesn’t matter if the Mars One co
mponents are launched from Florida or Woomera, does it? We’ll still launch the assembly team from New Mexico and they’ll put it all together in orbit.”
“Different orbit when you launch from Down Under.”
“Yeah, I know. You take care of the technical details.”
With a grudging grin, Margulis said, “You sound like von Braun. Whenever somebody asked him how he’d get something done he’d answer that it was just a technical detail.”
“That’s what engineers are for, Jess.”
“My wife’s not going to like me going to Australia, Art. For weeks at a time, I imagine.”
“Take her with you. And the kids. I’ll spring for it out of my own pocket.”
Brightening visibly, Margulis said, “Gee, that’d be great. She’d like that.”
“Fine. Now get off the phone and let me talk to Yamagata.”
“Australia?” Saito Yamagata gasped.
“The Woomera Rocket Range,” Thrasher said, enjoying the look of utter surprise that overwhelmed the Japanese executive’s normally calm, confident expression.
“In six months?”
“That’s we agreed on. You can get your crew out there in six months, can’t you?”
“And who will operate the launches that we are contracted for here with NASA?”
“Oh, that.”
Yamagata looked very troubled. “Art, International Launch Services has contractual obligations—”
“Which include Mars, Incorporated.”
“At Cape Canaveral, not Australia!”
“Can’t you do it?”
“ILS can’t.”
Thrasher started to reply, then realized what Yamagata had just said. Subtle. But maybe . . .
“Sai, are you telling me that your employer won’t allow you to set up a new operation at Woomera?”
“No, they won’t. They would regard it as too big a risk. Besides, it would hamper the jobs we’re already contracted for.”
Thrasher drummed his fingers on his desktop for several moments as he thought furiously.
“Suppose you left ILS and came to work for Mars, Inc.?”
Yamagata shook his head. “It would be dishonorable for me to jump from ILS to your firm.” But then he said, “Of course, I could leave ILS with honor if it was to set up my own corporation.”
“In Australia?”
“In Japan. But our first operation could be in Australia.”
“Where would you get the people you need?”
“I can find them. The question is, where would I find the money I need to start the corporation?”
“I could funnel the money I was going to pay ILS to you.”
“You will have to pay a fee to ILS for defaulting on your agreement.”
Thrasher closed his eyes briefly and saw red ink bleeding everywhere.
“So what you’re telling me,” he said slowly, “is that you could set up your own corporation, hire the necessary personnel, and operate our six Delta IV launches, starting within six months.”
“It would be a squeaker, but it could be done. Of course, I’ll have other investors, as well. Some of my family would want to come in on this.”
“Would you make a public offering?”
“No. Strictly family. With you as our first customer. We’ll use your money as our start-up investment.”
“And this will be acceptable to ILS?”
“They will accept it, I’m certain.”
“Okay. Better get your butt over to Woomera as quick as you can.”
Yamagata nodded. “We are both taking a great risk, you know.”
“Yeah, I know. But behold the lowly turtle—”
“He only makes progress when he sticks his neck out,” Yamagata finished the old saw.
The two men smiled at each other and then said goodbye. Thrasher thought that sticking out your neck was a good way to get your head chopped off.
“Australia?” David Kahn rasped.
Starting to feel weary, Thrasher said to the old man’s image on his phone screen, “Yes, Australia. It’s the answer to our prayers.”
“Where’s the money going to come from?”
“We’ll manage. We’ll even save some, in the long run, not having to jump through all the goddamned hoops that Meek and the NRC want to put us through.”
“Are the Aussies okay with launching a nuke?”
“Yes.” Thrasher was stretching the truth, he knew. He hadn’t discussed the Australian government’s safety regulations with Dougherty. But if the Outback’s as empty as he claims we ought to be able to get the reactor off okay.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Kahn asked.
“I’ve talked it over with our tech people and they see no reason why we can’t launch from Woomera.”
“I can see a dozen reasons.”
“Take it up at the next board meeting,” Thrasher growled.
“Next meeting’s not for six months.” Kahn grumbled.
“By then we’ll be almost ready to launch,” said Thrasher. “Maybe we could hold the meeting at Woomera!”
Strangely Jenghis Kahn smiled. Like a snake. “Maybe we could. And if the launch fails, we could bury your body in the Outback.”
“With the kangaroos and dingos,” said Thrasher.
Kahn’s smile widened.
But Thrasher was thinking, if this goes through I’ll have to find a place for Dougherty on the crew. I can’t bump any of the scientists, the whole academic world would scream bloody murder. It’ll have to be one of the astronauts. But which one?
Polk was untouchable, he knew. McQuinn was the crew’s medical doctor.
With a sigh, he realized it would have to be Velazquez. The kid’s going to go apeshit. I just hope Polk and McQuinn don’t go out on strike for him.
13
SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA
December was the first month of summer Down Under. It seemed strange to see the city decked out in Christmas decorations while the weather was so balmy. Like Florida, Thrasher thought. Santa Claus in shorts, riding a surfboard.
He was sitting in his suite in Sydney’s Intercontinental Hotel, going over his notes for the upcoming board meeting with Linda, via Skype.
“. . . then Mr. Kahn gives the treasurer’s report,” Linda was saying.
“The bloodbath,” Thrasher muttered, thinking of the red ink.
Linda was totally focused on the business at hand, but as Thrasher watched her on his computer’s screen he thought she looked very lovely. With a pang he realized that he missed her.
“And then you introduce Alan Dougherty to the board.”
He thought he saw her face light up at the mention of Dougherty’s name. Thrasher knew that the Aussie had flown over to Tucson at least twice in the past six months. But he hasn’t even met Linda and she’s already interested in him. Sonofabitch!
“He’ll have a representative of the Australian scientific committee with him,” Linda went on, “to introduce to the board.”
Thrasher nodded. He’d come to Australia a week earlier than the board meeting’s scheduled date so that he could talk with the Aussie scientists and get their okay on launching the nuclear reactor. They had already studied the details of the nuke’s protective shielding and all the safety precautions that Jessie Margulis had built into the launch plan. The meeting was strictly pro-forma.
Still, Thrasher found himself holding his breath until the chairman of the committee—a redheaded man in a sports coat and open-necked shirt who looked too young to be a scientific bigwig— smiled at him and said, “Mr. Thrasher, we see no reason why you shouldn’t be allowed to launch your reactor from Woomera.”
Thrasher puffed out a sigh of relief. Then the committee chairman added, “Of course, we’ll need a formal agreement from the appropriate government agencies, but that should be no trouble.”
“That’s just fine,” Thrasher had said, resisting the urge to cross his fingers.
Now, looking at Linda on his co
mputer screen, Thrasher said, “So we can wind up the meeting and fly out to Woomera to watch the launch the next day.”
“Assuming there are no launch delays.”
There’s always that possibility, Thrasher thought. To Linda, he said, “Okay, fine. That’s it, then?”
She nodded. “I wish I was there with you. Sydney looks so lovely.”
Nodding back at her, Thrasher replied, “I guess it is. I wouldn’t know. I’ve been up to my eyeballs in meetings.”
“Australian women are very beautiful,” she said, arching a brow.
“Like I said, I wouldn’t know.”
“All work and no play?”
“That’s me.”
“At least you could bring me back an opal,” she said.
He broke into a pleased smile. “That I will, kid. That I will.”
As soon as he broke the connection with Linda his screen showed an incoming call. From Bart Rutherford.
The Californian seemed to be in a hotel room, from what Thrasher could see.
“How’s everything in Australia?” Rutherford said, by way of opening their conversation.
“Fine,” said Thrasher. “What’s up?”
“I’m down in Mohave, talking with my fellow wizards,” Rutherford said. “I think we’ve come up with something that might interest you.”
“Oh?”
“We’re going to modify one of our space launching systems for a flight from Mohave to Australia. We need your help in getting clearance from the airport authorities in Sydney for landing our bird there.”
“A manned launch?”
“Sure. We’ve done half a dozen manned launches to orbit. Might’s well try a trans-Pacific shot. Kick Boeing’s ass.”
Rutherford was grinning like a big kid. Thrasher grinned back at him. “How soon?”
“End of this week, if we can get a landing clearance. Thought we’d do it as a Christmas present to you.”
“I’ll get on the horn to the airport authorities right away,” Thrasher said.
But as soon as he cut the link with Rutherford the hotel’s front desk called. “You have visitors, sir,” said the pleasant-faced young woman.
