by Ben Bova
Like when we used to climb up onto the roofs of the warehouses, when we were kids, he thought. But he knew the difference. Back then he could scramble up the warehouse walls like a monkey and then spend the rest of the day running races across the flat roofs or playing hide-and-seek with his bro’s among the cooling towers and other structures on the roofs. He remembered the chicken game they played, jumping from one roof to the next across the alleyways separating the buildings. One slip and it was the morgue or the hospital. And the police.
Good thing everything weighs one-sixth here, Paul thought. I’m sure in no shape to play tag now.
Slowly, carefully, he forced himself to his knees, and then to his feet. The GPS signal was still coming through loud and clear. No tears in the suit. Probably saved half an hour, at least, he told himself.
He walked across the big rock. Its top was not as flat as it had looked. It was pitted here and there with small, sharp craters, almost like bullet holes.
Then Paul got to the far side. He peered over the boulder’s edge. This side was much steeper than the other had been. Looks like the pissin’ rock was sheared off with a big cleaver. How the hell am I gonna get down there? There’s hardly anyplace for a toehold.
I could jump, he thought. Only about thirty feet. But he knew that, lunar gravity or not, a man could break bones jumping that far .Paul recalled a couple of wise asses who disregarded the safety regs when they had first started working on the Moon. One broke his leg. The other, his neck. How surprised the poor sonofabitch looked, even through the visor of his helmet. Died before they could get a medical team to him.
So I won’t jump, Paul concluded. But how the hell do I get down? Could go back the way I came, but that’d mean I’d have to walk all the pissin’ way around this damned rock, just as if I never climbed up here in the first place. I’ll lose an hour or more and there’s not that much oxygen left.
He rummaged through the pockets on the thighs of the suit, and in the pouches on the belt around his waist, looking for anything that might serve as a rope. All he found was a lot of useless junk, and a ten-foot length of hair-thin wire. It was used to plug the suit’s microcomputer into more powerful units, when necessary.
Too short and too frail, Paul thought But it’ll have to do.
He jammed one end of the wire into the craterlet closest to the rock’s edge, then wedged it with pebbles and bigger stones until it looked like a miniature caim. Might mark my grave, after all, he told himself.
“Okay,” he said aloud. “Down we go — one way or another.”
The wire held his weight, but as Paul cautiously edged his way down the sheer face of the boulder, he could feel the wire slipping out from under the rocks he had used to weight it down. He thought about rappelling, but figured that would just tear the wire loose even faster.
The worst part was that he couldn’t see the ground from inside his helmet. He’d have to bend over almost double to look down and he didn’t have the time or the inclination to try.
The wire felt as if it were really slithering loose. Gotta jump, Paul told himself. If I don’t-
The toe of his left boot struck a projection. A ledge, only a few inches wide, but it felt like an interstate highway and international jetport runway put together.
He found the ledge with his other boot and rested there for a moment, taking the strain off the wire.
If I can just turn around, he thought. Slowly, with infinite care, he twisted his body around in a clumsy, sweaty pirouette, never letting go of the wire dangling above his head. He only got halfway turned around. The bulky backpack of his suit stopped him from going further.
Still, it was enough. He leaned over slightly, judged his distance from the ground. Still hard to see; the dust was still clinging to his visor. Looks like more than twenty feet.
Paul turned around again until he was facing the boulder once more. He felt the wire with both gloved hands. Only another foot or so of it left.
“Okay,” he said to no one. “Just like you’re jumpin’ off the warehouse roof.”
He let go of the wire, got down on one knee, planted both his hands on the ledge, then lowered his other leg over its edge. He let himself dangle for a moment, hanging onto the ledge with his fingers while he swung his boots to touch the boulder’s face. Then he pushed off.
And fell.
It was like a dream, he fell so slowly. He had time to calculate, I’m almost six feet tall and the ledge was twenty feet above the ground so I’m really only dropping about fourteen feet and in the one-sixth gee it ought to be okay if I don’t hit another ledge or a bump or projection or— His boots slammed onto the ground. Like a parachutist, Paul let his knees bend deeply, using all his legs to absorb the impact. He whoofed out a big grunt of air, clouding his visor with his breath.
But he was standing on the ground again. No broken bones. Just a little twinge in his right ankle. Otherwise everything was okay.
He took a deep breath, turned up his helmet fan to clear the fog from his visor, and started out across the plain once again.
I must’ve saved at least fifteen minutes, he told himself, not daring to look at his watch or make an estimate of how much oxygen might be left in his backpack tank.
The ankle hurt enough to make him limp.
BOARD MEETING
Paul’s personal jet was subsonic, so he expected to arrive in New York hours later than Bradley Arnold. He had rushed from his office to the corporation’s airstrip, where Joanna was waiting for him, eager to tell her about what McPherson had learned.
But before he could start to break the news to her, Joanna asked, “Aren’t all these personal planes an expense we can cut down on?”
She was buckling herself into the co-pilot’s seat, on Paul’s right.
“You can bring it up as new business at the meeting,” he answered, watching over the plane’s stubby nose as the ground crew disconnected the towing tractor from the nose wheel.
“Perhaps I should,” Joanna said.
Paul ran up the engines, his eyes on the indicators of the control panel, amused at the no-nonsense tone of Joanna’s voice. She was taking her responsibilities as a board member seriously.
“Before you do,” he said over the muted howl of the jets, “you ought to check out the efficiency study we commissioned last year.”
He eased off the brake pedals and the plane rolled forward, Paul slipped on his headset as he maneuvered the plane toward the end of the runway. He got his clearance from the tower, pushed the throttles to full power, and the twin-jet hurtled down the runway and arrowed into the sky.
Once they were on course for LaGuardia, Paul slipped the headset down over his neck.
“I presume,” Joanna said, “that the efficiency report says your personal planes are the only thing standing between us and utter bankruptcy.”
He grinned at her. “Not quite. But the report does endorse the planes. Saves the top executives a lot of time, and time is our most precious commodity.”
Joanna looked unconvinced. “Another report that says exactly what its readers want to hear.”
“The best consultants money can buy,” Paul said.
I’m sure.”
More seriously, Paul said, “I got a report from McPherson this afternoon.”
“About Gregory?” Joanna tensed visibly.
“He had terminal cancer of the prostate,” Paul told her. “That’s why he killed himself.”
She was silent for a long time. Paul let her absorb the information, sort out her feelings. He looked out at the clouds below, like a range of massive white mountains, but alive, dynamic, billowing up and reaching toward them. Above the clouds everything always seemed so much better, cleaner. The sun was always shining up here. The sky was always bright blue.
“Then he didn’t know about us, after all,” Joanna said at last.
“Or didn’t care. He had other problems.”
“He never had much of a tolerance for pain,” Joanna mu
rmured, so low that Paul could hardly hear her over the engines. “His own pain, that is.”
“He killed himself to end his pain,” Paul said.
Joanna nodded, her face unreadable.
Paul heard a sudden burst of chatter in his earphone. He pulled the headset back on. “Masterson one-oh-one,” he said crisply into the pinhead microphone. “Repeat, please.”
“One-oh-one, mis is Masterson base. Paul, we just got word that Mr. Arnold’s plane has gone down.”
“What?”
Automatically, Paul reached for the intercom switch on the control panel and flicked it on, so Joanna could hear the radio transmission, too.
“Arnold’s plane is down. Over the Atlantic. Coast Guard’s sent out search planes, but they don’t expect any survivors.”
“What happened?” Paul demanded.
“Dunno. Got one Mayday transmission that said they’d lost power on both engines.”
“Holy God.”
They flew in silence for a while, Paul’s mind churning. Brad’s gone. That supersonic blowtorch of his has the glide ratio of a grand piano. Must have hit the water like a bomb. Gripes, what a blow!
But a part of his mind was thinking that with Arnold out of the way Greg had no one of real importance backing him on the board of directors. This strengthens my hand. A lot, he told himself.
He looked over at Joanna. She seemed lost in thought, also. Weighing the odds, he knew. Trying to figure out how the balance of power has shifted.
Just like I am.
The board meeting went on anyway. Most of the directors had come from considerable distances to attend the emergency meeting. The old days when the rich and powerful lived in or near New York were long gone. Now the directors came from Tucson and Aspen, Houston and Sarasota, Seattle and Hilo. Several had flown in from Europe and the Asian rim.
The vice chairperson, a white-haired superannuated woman who had once been the corporation’s director of personnel, seemed staggered when Paul told her that Arnold was dead.
“First Gregory and now Brad,” she whispered.
She easily agreed to let Paul run the meeting. Paul thought she was eager to escape the responsibility.
Leaving Arnold’s seat at the head of the table vacant, Paul convened the meeting and broke the news to the stunned board.
“My God,” said one of the older directors, his hair white, his skin gray. “Who’s next?”
“I move that we observe a minute of silence for our late chairman,” said Greg. He sat halfway down the table, wearing his usual black business suit. He had not even glanced at Melissa, sitting at the end of the table. Paul thought that either he really did hate her now, or they were putting on a damned good act.
Once the minute of silence ended, Paul said, “I suppose we should elect a new chairman right away.”
Heads bobbed agreement. Directors turned in their chairs, murmured to one another.
“I suggest we take a fifteen-minute break,” Paul said, “then reconvene to hear nominations.”
They didn’t even bother to vote; just pushed their chairs back and headed for the bar and snacks at the back of the meeting room. Paul saw that the directors clumped into knots of threes and fours. Plenty of whispered conversations. Plenty of sudden, desperate politicking.
Joanna came up to his side. “Do you have a nominee in mind?” she asked.
Surprised, Paul admitted, “No. I haven’t even thought about it.”
Before Joanna could say anything more, Greg stepped between them. “I need to talk to you,” he said to Paul, pointedly turning his back to his mother.
“You can talk to both of us,” Paul said, shifting sideways a step so that he was once more side by side with Joanna.
“Certainly,” Greg said tightly.
“So?” Paul prompted.
“You were out at the nanotech division, right?”
Paul nodded.
“Several board members want to shut it down.”
Joanna said, “It’s going to be years before it has any hope of showing a profit”
“Just like Moonbase,” Greg snapped.
“What’re you driving at?” Paul demanded.
“Just this. You vote to keep the nanotech division going and I’ll vote to keep Moonbase going.”
Paul blinked with surprise. “You’ll back Moonbase?”
“If you’ll back the nanotech division.”
Glancing at Joanna, Paul thought, This is the way a corporation goes broke; everybody’s got his own pet project that he wants to keep alive, so nobody kills anything and we all go down the tubes.
Almost as if he could read Paul’s thoughts, Greg said, “Kris Cardenas showed you the lunar construction demo, didn’t she?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, why don’t we pool our interests and set up a demonstration on the Moon?”
“Demonstration of what?” Joanna asked.
“Nanotech construction,” Greg told his mother. “Set up a construction task for the nanomachines at Moonbase. Use it to prove that we can build lunar facilities at a fraction of today’s costs.”
“I don’t understand,” Joanna said.
Feeling suddenly enthusiastic, Paul jumped in, “We can send a handful of nanomachines up to Moonbase and have them construct new facilities out of regolith materials.”
“Right,” said Greg.
“Can that be done? I mean, now? Today?”
“In a few months,” Greg replied.
Paul said, “If the demonstration works, we can cut the costs of Moonbase by half or more.”
“And prove to the world that nanotechnology has useful applications here and now,” Greg added.
Joanna looked from her son to her husband, then back again. “Greg, that’s — beautiful!”
“I think it can work,” Greg said. “I’m certain it could work.”
“You might be right,” Paul admitted. “Gripes, we could build a viable Moonbase right away and start making a profit off it within a couple of years.”
“Or sooner,” said Greg.
Joanna smiled happily. “This is a fine idea, Greg.”
“You’re right,” Paul agreed.
Greg put his hand out. “Can we work together on this? You and me, Paul?”
Grabbing his proffered hand in his own, Paul said, “Damned right.”
“Good,” said Greg, beaming. “And once the meeting reconvenes, I’ve got another little surprise for you.”
Paul looked at his wristwatch. “Hey, we’d better get them back to work.”
It took a few minutes to get the directors settled back in their chairs around the long conference table.
“All right,” Paul said. “Before we get into the regular agenda, we should take nominations for the new chairman of the beard.”
Greg spoke up immediately. “I nominate Joanna Masterson — er, Stavenger.” Paul stared at him.
“Second,” said the elderly woman vice-chair. She’s happy with the title she’s got, Paul thought; she doesn’t want any real responsibility.
“Move we close the nominations,” Greg said.
“Second.”
Numb with surprise, Paul looked at Joanna, sitting acrossthe table from him. She seemed just as shocked as he was. “Automatically, he called for discussion.
“Let’s go straight to a vote,” said the old man at Paul’s right.
“Let’s make it by acclamation,” said the vice-chair.
“Hear, hear!”
Paul broke into a grin and got to his feet. The entire board stood up and applauded their new chairperson. Paul went around to Joanna and ceremonially guided her to the empty chair at the head of the table.
The board members sat down, obviously expecting Joanna to make a little acceptance speech. Standing there at the head of the table, she glanced at Paul, then looked at Greg.
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes still locked on her son. “This is totally unexpected and a little scary.”
Paul noticed that Joanna was resting her fingers lightly on the table top. Her hands were steady, her voice firm.
“I want you to know that I will do my very best to serve you as chairperson of this board. I will do everything I can to fulfill the trust you’ve shown in me.”
Greg’s eyes were on his mother, his face blank, emotionless.
“The first order of business I would like to address,” Joanna went on, “is unity. I’know my late husband’s death has upset many members of this board. And Brad Arnold’s, too. But I ask you now — all of you — to put these deaths behind us and work together for a stronger, more productive company.”
“Hear, hear,” muttered one of the older men.
“I expect no recriminations and no accusations,” Joanna said, still looking at Greg. “I want cooperation and harmony. It’s useless to dwell on the past; we must look to the future.”
They all applauded, Greg the loudest of all. Paul noticed that Joanna said not another word about Bradley Arnold, nor did any of the other board members. Sic transit gloria mundi, he said to himself. Gone and forgotten.
SAVANNAH
The next three months were the happiest Joanna had ever known. Her son and her husband were working together, forging a bond between them, learning to know and respect one another.
Greg dined frequently at the house. He gave up his apartment in Manhattan to live full-time in his Savannah condo. He and Paul travelled together frequently to San Jose to check the progress of the nanotech program. They had agreed that the first goal would be to have the nanomachines build a complete shelter out on Mare Nubium totally out of local raw materials from the lunar regolith.
“I think we should put the site pretty far out on the mare,” Greg suggested at one of their meetings.
Kris Cardenas arched a questioning eyebrow. The three of them were in her cubbyhole of an office, hunched around the tiny circular table she used instead of a desk.
“If anything goes wrong,” Greg explained, “we don’t want the bugs infesting any of the existing shelters.”
