The fifth successful probe meant the brass had plenty of prospects to choose from, even before the rest reported back. The problem now, as he saw it, was what teams to send where. The ATSA hierarchy was split into several factions. There were the “eggs in one basket” fans, who wanted all three of the colonization teams now preparing and training to settle on one exoplanet; the “spread the risk” cheerleaders, who wanted three different colonies; and the “let’s not do anything until the aliens come looking for us” nay-sayers. But Doug dismissed the third faction. One way or another, there would be a mission. In his opinion, that called for a celebration.
O O O
Ten days later, the whole team gathered for a rare party in the cafeteria. The dining hall was one of the largest rooms on the station. Because of the curvature of the vessel, the ceiling and floor sloped slightly down and away to either side from the center where Doug sat in front of the enormous high-retina screen. It was a tribute to the singleminded nature of the scientists on board that the accommodations were of a basic, though comfortable nature, except for the technology. That was of top quality and the latest models.
The astronomers, plus his or her graduate students, a few visitors, and the support staff waited excitedly for the big announcement from ATSA. Professor Farah Mendlesohn of Cambridge University, she of the pre-Raphaelite tresses, specialized not specifically in astronomy but the astrophysical technology that created and ran the scopes. Her student contingent was the largest. They hung on her words and ran to make sure her tea was hot. Dr. Tiffany Trent, whose warm auburn locks matched her personality, another observational scientist whose specialty was Oort cloud analysis, all from the top of their classes at Terran and Martian universities. Dr. Conrad Barlow, doyen of the X-ray telescope, glowering from among his coterie of terrified grad students, never looked like he was happy to be there, but hated to be left out of anything. The heavy brow ridges under a receding hairline seemed made for expressing disapproval. Dr. Jake Kerr, big, burly and bald, studied multiple-star complexes like binaries, trinaries and dodecanaries, maybe the most popular professor on the station. He had a sideline in writing humorous stories for the online magazines. Professor Amir bin-Alam was the newest addition to the team. His ambition made everyone else feel as if they were slackers living in their mothers’ basements. And neon-haired Dr. Christie Yant, their own celebrity. Not only had she been a devoted amateur astronomer since childhood, she was the only one of the professors on board who had no student debt whatsoever, a result of her popular sideline. Doug had to admit he envied her success. Most of the senior astronomers on board were published authors, but she far outshone the others.
In Christie’s youth, which was not far behind her, she had become interested in astronomy, but like most kids, had no money to buy her own telescope. She had also discovered, by reading many books and online texts, that the ancient Terrans, through their studies of the stars, believed that what happened in heaven affected their lives directly. In other words, astrology. A perusal of the Internet libraries turned up thousands of astrology books, many of them written by people who, secretly, were as skeptical of the pseudoscience as she was. There was money to be made from it. Money that could buy telescopes and cameras and access to star chart databases.
So, Christie took the trigonometry she used to chart the movement of the stars to cast horoscopes for her friends. Then, for friends of friends. Then, for clients who had heard about her. She had natural intuition and plenty of research material available on the Internet to “interpret” the charts. Once she got bored with astrology, she moved on to studying other forms of divination, such as palm reading, Tarot, and crystals.
So, with a worldwide popularity and over a dozen books that had made the New York Times Bestseller List under—debatably—nonfiction, Christie not only had enough money to buy her first telescope, a sixteen-incher, but the subsequent five; put herself through university, grad school and her PhD. program at U Wyoming; and bought a nice house near the Denver shuttleport. Though she was employed full time in a scientific capacity by ATSA, she kept up her practice with a few clients who were wealthy and famous and didn’t want to let her go. Christie never said out loud whether or not she really believed in her divinations. Doug suspected it was because word getting back to her rich clients would make them look elsewhere, and she liked being financially independent. Who wouldn’t? Working from government grants and adjunct professorships wasn’t anything like lucrative. Also, she did say she believed that she was making people feel more comfortable with themselves. She never gave financial advice or awkward predictions.
Thank goodness, Doug thought with a grin, that she never went in for reading entrails.
The background on the big screen was the familiar ATSA animation. From a tiny blue and orange sunburst, it morphed into an old-time gantry and launchpad with an antique three-stage rocket standing against it. The gantry fell away as white smoke gathered beneath the rocket’s fins. The rocket launched, turning toward the viewer until it blackened the whole screen. On the darkness grew a constellation of stars shaped into the letters “ATSA.” The full name, in sixty languages, chased around the perimeter, all accompanied by blaring brass music.
On the stage in front of the backdrop sat a line of people. Doug recognized a few of them from their visits to the station. The director-general of the ATSA, a pleasant-faced woman with light brown hair, waited until the fanfare of the theme music stopped, then addressed the camera with a smile.
“My friends, I am Director-General Sandra McDonald of the All-Terran Space Agency. Since humanity began to look at the stars, we’ve all been fascinated by those distant lights in the sky. Many of our ancestors wondered what was out there. We dreamed of exploring distant suns and living on strange planets. I know I did. Well, after millennia of speculation, centuries of aspiration and decades of preparation, it looks as if we finally have our chance to do just that. We may now be ready to leave the safe womb of Sol’s system and live among the stars.
“I am sure you have been following the Landis project as avidly as I have. The probes have brought us confirmation of viable planets within what we call the ‘Goldilocks zone’ of stars. We have, not one, but several prospective planets we are considering for exploration and settlement.”
The murmur among the audience before the dais rose to a roar that overpowered her words. Smiling, Director McDonald waited until it died down before resuming.
“We have many milestones to meet before we can launch colony ships, but I am delighted to say that the work is under way. We have a timetable for each event, and I have forwarded it to the news organizations for all of you to keep track.”
The list appeared behind her on the screen. She went down each item in turn, discussing the completion of the colony ships, test firings, more meta-analysis of the planetary data, and so on. Doug grew more excited as he listened. It sounded as if it was finally real this time. Director McDonald lifted her eyes from her tablet.
“I have so many people to thank that I’m posting a file with their names and their contributions on the ATSA Facebook page. I’d like to offer a few especial thanks to Dr. Sidney Colfax, Dr. Tiffany Trent, Dr. Nin Won Chen, Dr. Jake Kerr, Dr. Christie Yant and all the astronomers on board the Verley telescope platform, Captain Sir Gerald Montgomery, Sultan Sera Mufati, Mary Turzillo of Turzillo Enterprises, and the whole team at Brotherton Astrophysics for their contributions to this grand undertaking. Now, allow me to introduce the commanders who will captain the Suma colony ships.” The camera swung away from her and rolled down the table, zooming in on each face in turn. “Captain Christian Ready. Captain Linda Nagata. And Colonel Michael Kurland. Mission Control will be commanded by General Renee Engelstad.”
The Terran President spoke by remote from his office in Sweden, giving his thanks and congratulations. There were more speeches, more introductions, and commentary by the reporters on scene and in the studio. By then no one in the cafeteria was listening. Everyone was talking, toasting on
e another, drinking and laughing. The celebration had begun.
Not everyone was happy, though, Doug noticed, as he accepted a glass of champagne from one of the graduate students, many of whom were circulating with trays. Conrad was glowering. His ego had been bruised.
Doug grabbed a second glass and wandered over. He offered the wine to Conrad.
“She couldn’t give a shout-out to everybody,” he said.
“My research underpins everything that this platform has sent out!” Conrad exclaimed, ignoring the proffered glass.
Doug set it down and sipped from his own. What Conrad said wasn’t true, but he was notoriously touchy. Better to defuse him there and then instead of letting things fester.
“Look, we all know how important your work is,” he said. “What’s going on with the new X-ray telescope beyond the asteroid belt?”
Conrad snorted.
“Funding dried up. It’s all going to the colony project now.”
“It’ll start up again,” Doug said, though both of them knew it wouldn’t be soon. There was only so much money available for practical projects. God knows how they would have funded something like the Verley again today.
He said as much to Conrad, but the astronomer’s attention wasn’t on him. He was glaring at the knot of professors who stood in the middle of the room, laughing and congratulating one another. Doug was glad to have escaped the academic track. That kind of jealousy was a killer.
O O O
The road to the stars was open, as Russian cosmonaut Sergey Korolev had said. It seemed like everybody in the Sol system had his or her own view on the project. Apart from a few harbingers of gloom, most people were wildly excited and happy. ATSA could have done nothing better to electrify the population and draw it together. Social media filled with optimistic chatter. People imagined out loud what it would be like to be going on the mission. The craze engendered innumerable songs, television shows, books and movies. The online news was full of articles filed from ATSA outposts all over the world. They showed the usual videos of astronauts on cyclotrons and running on treadmills with breather masks over their faces. Everyone discussed and argued about what would happen when. Every bit of news was savored.
Rob was busy all the time, connecting the staff of the Verley with news stations and talk show hosts who wanted to have their take on the colony project. Doug had several himself.
“Um, Captain, I reviewed the raw data you sent me,” said an attractive woman anchor for a major news organization. “It all looks like ones and zeroes. Where are the pictures?”
Doug grinned into the video pickup. “That’s what we get. We have the tools to interpret what we see, so we can explain it to you. All those amazing pictures you see from the great telescopes of the past are actually artistic renderings of digital readings.”
“So you’re just telling us stories. You could be making all this up.”
“That’s not the way science works. We deal in fact. It’s all out there. The image of me that you’re looking at is exactly the same, but you accept it, because what’s at the other end of the camera is the real thing.”
“Don’t you think you’re being too much of an idealist about the colonization project?”
“I believe in what we’re doing,” Doug said simply. Because it was true. The woman looked pleased. It was the perfect tag line.
“Thank you, Captain. And we’re out. Thanks again.”
“My pleasure.”
O O O
Three months later, Doug got his first look at the galley proofs of his thriller. His Venusian publisher was delighted with it, and wanted to give it a big push systemwide. The publicity connected with the colony project would give all the author-astronomers on the Verley a big boost. Doug had started another book with the same high-tech detective, and was happy with the progress he was making. He ought to be done with it by the time he and the other senior staff shuttled down to Earth for the press day scheduled by ATSA in two month’s time.
A few more hits from the outstanding probes had revealed two more likely planetary candidates for settlement. Privately, he noted they were part of Christie’s research, but didn’t think about it again, until the video call came from Earth.
When the signal erupted, he reached for the answer key before even looking up. The familiar face of ATSA’s director general popped up on his screen.
“Ms. McDonald!” Doug exclaimed with pleasure. “How are you doing?”
“Very well, Captain Farren. Do you have a moment?”
“Sure.” He closed the word-processing file and turned his entire attention to the communications window. He felt concern at the worry in her brown eyes. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to follow up on something that has been brought to my attention.”
“Is there a problem?” Doug asked.
“Well, you’ve never indicated a problem, so I assumed there wasn’t. But with so much at stake, I have to investigate. Can we schedule a meeting with a member of your senior staff?”
“Anyone specific?” Doug asked.
“Dr. Yant.”
“Dr. Yant? May I ask what this is about?”
She looked uneasy.
“I’d rather discuss it in person, if that is all right with you.”
“Certainly, ma’am. When can we expect you?”
“I’ll be on the next shuttle.” She closed the communications link. Doug immediately opened a new one to Rob.
“I just heard from the director-general. She wants a meeting, but she wouldn’t say why. Do you know anything about this?”
“She called me first,” Rob admitted. He toyed nervously with a piece of cut crystal that had some words etched into it, probably one of his many awards.
“What’s it about?” Doug asked. “Is there something wrong with our part of the project?”
“Er, not exactly. We don’t have a science problem, or at least they hope not.”
At Rob’s meaningful glance, Doug felt his eyebrows go up.
“Do we have a public relations problem?”
“We sure do.” Rob dropped his eyes to his console. “You haven’t been active in the socialsphere lately, have you?”
“No, I’ve been working on my book.”
“I’m sending you some of the rumors that are trending. I’ve been fielding calls and texts from reporters. I didn’t want to bother you with them, because it’s so clearly a load of bull, but it looks like it went right up into ATSA hierarchy. Didn’t mean to sandbag you with it.”
A flashing ring of green light erupted near the bottom of his screen. Doug touched it. It opened out into a double-columned document, divided into individual comments. He scanned down the list, and groaned.
“I’ll set up the meeting.”
O O O
Very reluctantly, he sent a text request to Dr. Yant to invite her to the conference. No matter how far away on the platform she was, that ought to give her enough time to take the slow, vibrationless pneumatic train in to the central sector.
Then Doug put the whole matter out of his mind.
Until that Wednesday morning, when he walked into the break room and found, not just Christie Yant, but several other of the astronomers on staff, arrayed on one side of the long meeting table, glowering like judges.
He halted in the doorway, his guests halting in a knot behind him. The Redheaded League sat in the center. Christie was flanked by Professor Farah Mendlesohn, and Dr. Tiffany Trent. To Doug’s total lack of surprise, on Tiffany’s left sat Dr. Jake Kerr. He was normally an affable colleague, but when he thought one of his protégés was under attack he went on full defense. As now. Dr. Amir bin-Alam sat beside Farah, almost drumming the table in his impatience.
“Uh, hi, guys,” Doug said.
“Doug,” Jake grunted.
“I have a roomful of graduate students waiting for hands-on instruction in instrument calibration about two hours’ ride from here,” Farah said. “Your arrival is going to thro
w my scopes off all over again. I hope this meeting isn’t another utter waste of all of our time.”
“Not at all,” Doug said, soothingly. He beckoned in his guests. “You know Rob. And you remember Director-General Sandra McDonald of ATSA, and Captains Ready and Nagata, and Colonel Kurland?” The astronomers nodded. Under normal circumstances, they would have been delighted to have a chance for a face-to-face, but he couldn’t blame them for being suspicious. Doug slid into a seat opposite Christie and nodded to the others to join him.
Jake sent a baleful eye up and down the line of visitors.
“If you’re here to hammer Christie again, you might as well just go back to the shuttle,” he said. “We all have work to do.”
“We’re not!” Christian Ready said, holding up his hands in surrender. With his clear blue eyes and jutting jaw, he was the ideal poster boy for the colonization program. “We just want some clarification. My crew has been running drills like crazy ever since the first Landis probe reported in two years ago. God knows we want this to succeed more than anyone. If the data we’ve been looking at is real, we’re ready to go.”
“Of course it’s real!” Christie said, her face as red as her hair.
“Do we have to wait for further corroboration?” Colonel Kurland asked. His bushy eyebrows met over his nose. “I’m the closest to aging out of this program, but I’m not taking my team out to an unsuitable destination. We want a viable planet. I want to live in space, not die there.”
Doug whistled under his breath. The gloves were off. Thankfully, Rob hadn’t brought any press with him this time.
Christie looked stricken. “But my data is right! You’ve seen the DATLOW readouts! Everything’s just as my scans and a dozen other astronomers said it would be.”
Sandra reached across the table and patted Christie’s hand. “I know. We’re just trying to figure out how it is you see anomalies that no one else does.”
“ATSA has had all the data, some of it for more than six years, and acted on it,” Doug said. “Why is there a question now?”
Launch Pad Page 30
