by Ben Bova
“Yes,” Joanna snapped. “And while I’ve got you on the link, I want to buy a lunar transfer vehicle. A used one, if possible; one that’s about to be retired, if there are any such available. But used or new, I want an LTV. Put that on my personal account, too.”
She thought the man would faint.
SPACE STATION MASTERSON
Like most of the major complexes in permanent Earth orbit, Masterson was a combination of several purposes: part manufacturing facility, part scientific research laboratory, part observation platform, part maintenance and repair center, and part transfer station for people and cargo heading onward to Moonbase.
Orbiting some two hundred fifty miles above the Earth, at first glance Masterson looked like a disconnected conglomeration of odds and ends, a junkyard floating in space. The modules where personnel were housed spun lazily on opposite ends of a two-mile-long carbon filament tether, like two oversized aluminum cans glinting in the sunlight, connected by a string so thin and dark it was for all practical purposes invisible. Outside the circumference of the housing modules’ arc floated the factories, labs, repair shops and transfer center, their angular utilitarian shapes dwarfed by huge wings of solar panels and radiators, massive concave solar mirrors that collected and focused the Sun’s heat for smelting and other processing work, and forests of antennas and sensors — all in zero gravity, or the nearest thing to it.
Spacesuited figures bustled from module to module, some of them jetting along in solo maneuvering units, others riding the bare-bones shuttlecraft that the station personnel called broomsticks.
Jinny Anson shook her head as she peered out the observation port. It had been almost nine months since she’d last been in zero gee, and she was testing her reactions. She felt a little woozy, but nothing she couldn’t handle.
Not so bad for an old lady, she told herself. Just don’t make any sudden moves.
There was a lunar transfer vehicle floating out there next to the repair sheds, she saw. It wasn’t the regular LTV, which wasn’t due back from its run to Moonbase for another thirty-six hours. As far as Jinny knew, the LTV had no business being there. But a maintenance crew was working on it, and she could see propellant lines feeding into its tanks.
“Are you ready for the inspection tour, Ms. Anson?”
Jinny pushed off the smooth surface of the observation port with her fingertips. The plastiglass felt cold, a reminder that there was nothing on its other side but empty infinity.
Turning toward the earnest young man who was to be her guide through the chemical processing plant, Jinny smiled and resisted the reflex to correct him. I’m still Ms. Anson on the company’s files. I’m only Mrs. Westlake in Austin.
“Let’s get it done, son,” she said.
He pushed off the handgrip projecting from the bulkhead and floated through the hatch. Jinny followed him into the access tube leading out of the observation center, saying, “Take it slow, huh? It’s been a while since I’ve been up here.”
The kid grinned over his shoulder at her.
As far as Masterson Corporation was concerned, Jinny was visiting the space station as part of her duties as quality control manager of the Houston division. The station manufactured the alloys and most of the electronics components that Houston used to build Clipperships. The station itself was now the property of the new Kiribati corporation, but its new ownership seemed to make no observable difference on the station staff or the work they did.
There had been a rumor that some day they would start using nanomachines to build the Clippers out of pure diamond, but Jinny discounted that as the usual shop-floor outgassing. If nothing else, the nanotech treaty would scuttle that idea.
Unofficially, Jinny had come to the station to hitch a ride to Moonbase. It wasn’t as simple as catching a bus, of course, but for a former director of’the base and a pretty important company official, the rules couldtbe stretched a little. She only wanted to visit Moonbase for a day or so, just long enough to talk with Joanna Stavenger face to face. Jinny was convinced that what she had to ask Joanna couldn’t be done any other way. I’ve got to see the whites of her eyes when I pop the question to her.
“What’s that LTV out there doing?” she asked as casually as she could.
The youngster turned lazily as he floated along the access tube so he could look back at her. “Special job,” he answered. “Rumble is that there are some big gasbags coming up from Savannah, on their way to Moonbase. Ultra VIP. They pooched out a backup LTV just to take them up to the base, quickie-quick.”
“How many?” Jinny asked.
“Dunno,” the kid said. “Two or three, from what I heard. Could be more, but not enough to fill a whole passenger pod.”
Jinny smiled to herself. There’s my ride. Quickie-quick.
It was startlingly easy to talk her way onto the special LTV. Most of the crew at the station knew her; most of the senior crew, at least. There was plenty of spare capacity aboard the nearly-empty LTV, and an extra body visiting Moonbase for a couple of days wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows — especially when the body was a former base director.
Jinny was supposed to get permission from the current base director, of course, but she knew how to get around that problem. She simply accessed the proper file from the station’s mainframe and okayed her own trip, using the computer codes that hadn’t been changed since she’d been running Moonbase. Easy.
I’ll say hello to Greg Masterson when I get there, she told herself. See his eyes pop.
There were only two other passengers in the LTV’s personnel pod. Jinny recognized the fat old guy as Professor Zimmerman, the nanotech whiz who had saved Doug Stavenger’s life after the big solar flare the previous year. The woman with him looked familiar, but Jinny couldn’t place her. She had ’California’ written all over her sandy-haired, tanned features. They ignored Jinny almost completely, talking to each other with deep seriousness as the LTV’s co-pilot ducked in to make sure they were buckled safely into their seats.
Silly safety regulation, Jinny thought. This bucket won’t put out enough thrust to slosh the coffee in a cup, even on a high-energy burn to Moonbase. Still, when the red light came on and the rockets lit, she felt herself squeezed back into her seat.
It was impossible to eat, sleep and go to the bathroom over the thirty-six-hour length of their flight without saying anything to the other passengers. When Jinny went past them to get to the meal dispenser, she hovered weightiessly by their seats long enough to say hello to Professor Zimmerman. The old man didn’t remember her at first, but when he started to unstrap and politely get up from his chair, his face went pale.
“Please, stay in your seat,” Jinny pleaded. “The rules of etiquette are different in zero gee.” Inwardly, she wanted to make sure that the flatlander didn’t puke all over her.
With an effort to maintain his dignity even while seated, Zimmerman introduced Professor Kristine Cardenas to Jinny.
Soon the three of them were talking together the way passengers on a trip will, strangers yet shipmates. Jinny found that Cardenas was also an expert in nanotechnology and they were both going to Moonbase at the personal request of Joanna Stavenger.
She also learned that their real reason for allowing Joanna to coax them up to Moonbase was almost exactly the same as Jinny’s own motivation.
“Perhaps we should pool our resources,” Zimmerman said. He was obviously uncomfortable in zero gee; Cardenas looked a little green, too. Jinny had gone to the meal dispenser for them and brought them prepackaged trays. And slow-release anti-nausea patches, which they both stuck behind their ears.
“What do you mean?” Jinny asked. It was impossible to eat in zero gee without spraying crumbs and droplets all around. The compartment’s air circulation sucked them up — slowly — into the ventilator grids along the ceiling.
Zimmerman started to gesture with his hands, then thought better of it. “You know the Stavenger woman much better than I or even Kristine. You cou
ld help us to convince her to allow us to remain at Moonbase indefinitely.”
“I work for her,” Jinny said, “but I can’t say that I know her very well. Not socially.”
Kris Cardenas said, “Still, if we all want the same thing, we ought to present a united front.”
Fine by me,” said Jinny, delighted to have a Nobel prizewinner and her mentor as unexpected allies.
Greg’s face looked like a storm cloud, when he stepped into the reception area beneath the rocket landing pads.
“What’s the matter?” Joanna asked him.
“Jinny Anson,” he snapped.
“Jinny?”
“She’s on the incoming ship, with Cardenas and Zimmerman.”
“But she’s supposed to be in Houston.”
“She’s on the ship. She thought she’d sneak in here without my knowing it. Thought I wouldn’t bother checking the LTV’s manifest.”
Joanna immediately recognized the problem. Naturally Greg would be suspicious of having the former director of the base suddenly pop in for a visit. Especially when she hasn’t told anyone she’s coming or even asked permission to make the trip.
“They’ll be corning down in a few minutes,” Greg said, in a tight-throated whisper. “Flight control has locked in on them.”
Joanna nodded wordlessly, wondering what she could do or say to ease his misery.
“Where’s Doug?” Greg asked her.
“He went up to the observation bubble,” she said. “He likes to watch the spacecraft land.”
Greg made a sour face. Everything’s a game to Doug; just a big entertainment. Impatiently he went to the wall panel beside the hatch and flicked on the intercom.
“Fifteen… right down the pipe,” said the flight controller’s voice. “Ten… five…”
“Green light,” a different voice announced. The spacecraft’s pilot, Greg assumed.
“Touchdown confirmed.”
“Shutting down.”
“Base power connected. The snake’s on its way.”
Greg paced impatiently across the small room. Doug came in through the door from the flight control center.
“Hi, Greg,” he said.
His half-brother gave him a dark look in return. Joanna thought how strange it was that they could both wear the same color coveralls, but Doug’s sky-blue jumpsuit looked bright and sunny while Greg’s seemed somehow darker, more ominous.
“This is your doing, isn’t it?” Greg snapped.
“My doing? What?”
“Bringing Anson here.”
“Jinny Anson?” Doug looked genuinely surprised. “She’s aboard this ship?”
Greg waved a finger in Doug’s face. “Don’t play innocent with me, Doug. I know what you’re doing, you and your Operation Bootblack.”
“I didn’t know Jinny Anson was coming here until this moment,” Doug said evenly.
“You’re a liar!”
Joanna’s breath caught in her throat. Greg stood red-faced before his half-brother, slightly taller but much slimmer. Doug seemed stunned by the accusation, his face frozen with shock, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
“That’s quite enough,” Joanna said, stepping between them. “I won’t stand for you two fighting like this.”
But Doug smiled and stepped back, his hands relaxing. “Honestly, Greg, I’m just as surprised as you are that Jinny’s come here. As for Operation Bootstrap, okay, we’re trying to make Moonbase profitable without costing you any cash flow. It’s all to your benefit, really.”
“Really?” Greg sneered.
“Really,” said Doug as pleasantly as a springtime breeze.
The airlock hatch’s signal-chikie interrupted them. Joanna and her two sons turned to the heavy metal hatch as the indicator light on its/panel turned from red to amber and one of the mission controllers came hustling into the reception area. She was a petite, almost frail-looking young woman, wearing the gray coveralls of the transportation division. Why do they give the heaviest jobs to the smallest kids? Joanna wondered. The hatch had to be swung open manually, and even though there was a pilot and co-pilot on this flight, standard procedure was for one of the controllers to be on hand to open the hatch from this side, if necessary.
It wasn’t necessary. As soon as the indicator light went from amber to green, the heavy metal hatch swung open. Joanna felt a slight stir of air in the reception room; the air pressure on the other side of the hatch had not exactly matched the pressure on this side.
The pilot pushed the hatch all the way open, grinning at the mission controller. “See,” he said, “there is a reason for carrying us up from Earth orbit, after all.”
“Then you ought to get paid as a doorman,” said the controller.
He wasn’t all that much bigger than she, Joanna realized. The pilot’s eyes widened when he recognized Greg. “Hey,” he said to the controller, “don’t talk that way in front of the boss.”
Greg forced a smile for them as they passed him, on their way to the flight control center. They didn’t recognize Joanna, apparently; at least the pilot didn’t.
Then Jinny Anson stepped through the hatch. Right behind her came Kris Cardenas and, finally, the lumbering form of Wilhelm Zimmerman.
For an awkward moment no one knew what to say. Greg looked like a smoldering volcano, Doug seemed nonplussed, and Joanna herself wondered what was going to happen.
Then Zimmerman broke the silence. “We seek asylum,” he said, with great dignity.
DIRECTOR’S OFFICE
“Let me get this straight,” Greg said. “You’re seeking political asylum? Here at Moonbase?”
“You are now under the legal jurisdiction of the nation of Kiribati, is that not so?” Zimmerman asked.
“Legally, yes,” said Greg.
“So! We seek asylum. Me from Switzerland, she from Canada.”
The six of them sat around the circular conference table in Greg’s office, where Greg had taken them immediately after their arrival. Joanna sat between her two sons, facing Anson across the table. Cardenas’ and Zimmerman’s luggage was still at the reception area, out at the rocket port.
“I don’t know if it’s political asylum or what,” said Kris Cardenas, “but we want the freedom to continue our research—”
“And our teaching,” interrupted Zimmerman.
Cardenas nodded. “And our teaching.”
“And you can’t do it Earthside?” Doug asked.
“Not once this treaty goes into effect,” said Zimmerman heavily. “All research on nanotechnology will be banned. Teaching also.”
Joanna saw the despair in his fleshy face. She had never considered how the nanotech treaty would affect researchers like Zimmerman and Cardenas.
Greg steepled his fingers before his face and looked at Anson. “Jinny, don’t tell me you’re seeking asylum, too.”
She grinned mischievously. “Nope. I just wanted to talk to you — and Mrs. Stavenger — about getting transferred to someplace where my husband can teach without the New Morality on his back.”
“What does he teach?” Joanna heard herself ask.
“English literature,” Anson replied. “Specializes in Marlowe — the Elizabethan, not the detective.”
No one laughed.
“Why don’t we invite him here?” Doug asked.
“Here?” Greg demanded. “To Moonbase? We can’t afford to carry nonproductive people here. What would we do with an English lit professor?”
“Start a university,” said Doug.
“What?”
Gesturing toward Zimmerman and Cardenas, Doug said, “We have two of the world’s greatest nanotech researchers, don’t we? Let Jinny’s husband teach English lit from here. Bring up a few other teachers and researchers. Moonbase can start its own university and people will pay good money to study here.”
“But the transportation costs,” Joanna pointed out.
Doug gave her a patient smile. “Mom, I’m studying at Caltech and
the Sorbonne and the American University in Rome — all without leaving Moonbase. People on Earth can study with our faculty the same way.”
“Electronically.”
“Virtual reality, when you need it,” said Doug.
Greg seemed intrigued despite himself. “You mean we could make a profit out of a university?”
“Of course!” said Zimmerman. “We can make this miserable collection of caves into a great intellectual center!”
Greg turned to his mother questioningly.
Joanna leaned close enough to whisper into his ear, “Don’t fight it. Take the credit for it.”
He smiled and thought, As long as Kiribati doesn’t sign the U.N. treaty, I can start the university here and transfer it to the islands when I close Moonbase.
Melissa had easily eluded Rashid’s attempts at romance during their first dinner together in his tent She had talked nothing but business, and learned more about the rumors of building a new type of Clippership out of diamond, using nanomachines. Rashid, ardently wanting to impress her, had blithely laid out everything he had heard about the scheme at her feet.
His reward was a brief kiss goodnight and the vague promise of delights to come.
Melissa dared not report back to General O’Conner or her cohorts at the Urban Corps headquarters in Atlanta. The only communications links on the storm-ravaged atoll belonged to Masterson Corporation; she wasn’t prepared to take the risk of being overheard.
Instead, she tried to think out a plan of action for herself. The nanotech scheme had to be stopped, preferably nipped in the bud. Greg Masterson must be behind it, she reasoned. He always was fascinated with nanotechnology. Another reason to ban it everywhere.
If they actually succeeded in making this breakthrough in spacecraft manufacturing with nanotechnology it would be a body blow to the U.N. treaty. Greg could sit up there at Moonbase and build spacecraft and make billions. These people here in Kiribati would get rich. Then they would start using nanomachines to manufacture other things: automobiles, perhaps; aircraft, certainly. Who knew what else?
