by Jack L Knapp
“I tried to call John, but he didn’t answer. Is he sleeping?”
“No, this is his duty shift. I think he’s doing his mandatory exercise.”
“Exercise? That sounds excellent.”
“I think it was your idea, or maybe it was just something you said. Anyway, people change in low gravity, so John’s got us doing an hour of exercise every morning and another hour at the end of each shift.”
Movement caught Chuck’s attention, but it was only there for a second. He tried to turn his head, but the helmet’s limitations forced him to turn to look where he’d seen the motion. Strange...it almost looked like...
“Is that a dog? Dammit, did someone bring a pet up here? I’ll have someone’s ass if he did!”
The man kept a straight face as he replied, “No dogs, no pets of any kind. Besides, where would we find a suit for a dog?”
“Then what the hell was that thing I saw? It was short, four legged, and moving like a bat out of hell! Something’s going on here, and I want an answer now!”
“I’ll let John explain it. He’s behind you, someone must have told him you were here.”
Chuck turned around, carefully stepping in place; he wasn’t accustomed to wearing the third layer of the suit. He was struck dumb when he saw John.
“John, what in the world...what happened to your legs?”
“Nothing, I just took them off. The suit covers my stumps, so taking the legs off was no problem, they just snap on over the suit. I took my old legs, the ones I got from the VA, and modified them. They wouldn’t work up here anyway, the gravity is too light. The springs in the feet are designed for Earth-normal gravity, so I couldn’t compress them enough to get any spring in my step. No pun intended. Anyway, I took them to the shop and a couple of the guys gave me a hand, enlarging the stump socket until it would fit comfortably over the suit legs, adding snaps so they would use the same system everyone else does. It’s how they lock moon boots to the suit legs. I took the leg extension off the left leg, then cut off everything on the right leg except two inches. The right leg was shorter after the surgery, so the extra length compensates. They’re technically feet instead of legs now, but they work great. Like them?”
“I don’t know. Why would you do all that?”
“Well, after I replaced the Earth-normal springs with springs that were only a sixth as strong, I decided to go whole hog. I put pads on my gloves, with an extra layer where the hands meet the wrists. I flex my hands back now when I’m exercising, so the pad protects the heel of my hand. I’ll have you know I hold every speed record on the moon. Want to race?”
“How the hell can you race in those ridiculous things?”
“What say we take a little run? You’ve got your three-layer suit, I’ve got my modified version. How about we race to the end of the plumbing line, you can see the poles that show where the fuel rods are buried. Just stay to the right of those, run to the end of the line, and come back. Tell you what, I’ll even give you a head start.”
“You’re serious?”
“Serious enough to bet you a bash at the best hotel in Reykjavik next time we’re dirtside. Anyone else want to run with us?”
By this time, the entire shift had come up to watch.
“I like the idea of exercise, but I don’t know...”
“You can afford the bet. There’s the course, take off.”
Chuck nodded, then decided to pace himself. He walked halfway, then began trotting, the usual long gliding steps of someone with experience in reduced gravity. He had gotten less than a hundred yards when John raced past him, bounding gorilla-like, the pads on his hands making contact, then the short legs coming up between his arms and pushing off. The bounding gait was faster than Chuck would have believed had he not seen it himself.
“You win. That was you I saw before, wasn’t it? What about the other men? Can they do something like this?”
“Sure, the light gravity really makes a difference. I made extensions that fit over their forearms so that the front ‘legs’ are long enough to swing their natural legs up under their body. They can keep up with me on the straightaways, but they can’t turn as fast. It’s my low center of gravity, I expect. Anyway, it’s fun, and the exercise is keeping us healthy.”
“What about radiation?”
“We only pick up a fraction of a rad, thanks to the new suits. Later on, after the tunnels are completed, we can run in those and not pick up any radiation at all.”
“You’ve got your blowout, next time you’re dirtside. Bring your crew if you want.”
“I’ll definitely take you up on that!”
#
Chuck’s return was timed to reenter atmosphere just as Australia came into view. Dropping down, he swung around as Brisbane passed beneath him, then touched down in front of the leased hangar. This time, there was no one to meet him; Chuck had finally gotten his Queensland driver’s license and bought a car, which remained in the hangar while he was away. Other than the right-hand controls, it was similar to the Volvo he’d owned in the US.
Brisbane traffic was heavy, so getting home to Burpengary took longer than expected. Finally he pulled into the brick driveway, locked the car, and went in. He greeted Frenchy and Will, who were busy keeping the twins happy.
“Where’s Lina?”
“She expected you half an hour ago,” Frenchy said. “You’re taking her out to dinner.”
“I am? Well, I’m glad someone told me. Do I have time to get cleaned up?”
“Of course, although I wouldn’t take longer than necessary. Women don’t mind keeping men waiting, but they don’t like it when it’s the other way around.”
“I don’t feel like driving, especially if I sample the booze. Have you got Mac’s number?”
“Sure, you hold Robbie and I’ll see if he’s available.”
“Thanks. Come here, squirt.” He took the squirming child, who promptly decided she didn’t like the new arrangement. She cried lustily until Chuck put her down on the mat. She hiccupped for a moment, then quieted down. Will put Bobby down and the twins crept toward each other.
Chuck was watching them when Frenchy returned. “He’ll be here in half an hour, if that’s acceptable. Should I call him back?”
“No, half an hour’s fine. I’ll go up and grab a quick shower. A shave wouldn’t hurt either. If Lina comes down before I do, tell here where I am.”
“Will do,” answered Frenchy.
Chuck had watched Will as he played with Bobby. The child was progressing well; other than a slight favoring of his left leg, he moved almost as well as Robby. Will also appeared to be progressing, smiling as he played with the babies. Maybe he would recover completely? Chuck hoped so.
Lina was waiting when he came down from his shower. Chuck wore typical lightweight Australian clothing, trousers, loose shirt, and loafers. Lina was dressed for a night out in Brisbane, a slinky black dress and heels, with the pearl necklace and earrings that Chuck had given her two years before. She frowned momentarily at Chuck’s casual dress, then kissed him and took his arm.
“Don’t wait up, dad. Ask Mildred to put the babies to bed in half an hour, please.”
Chuck asked, “Mildred? Is she new?”
“Right, she’s the new nanny during the week. She’s very good.”
“And the lady we had before?”
“She prefers to work weekends, so she can spend more time with her family. She found Mildred for us.”
“That’s a good recommendation. Where are we going?”
It’s an area called Fortitude Valley. Lots of restaurants, live music, bars, pretty much everything we could want. You’re taking me to dinner, then dancing.”
“I should have dressed up more, shouldn’t I?”
“You’re probably okay. Australians are pretty laid back.”
“That’s good. Any special reason? I didn’t forget our anniversary or your birthday, so is there a special occasion?”
“Other than
that you haven’t taken me out for more than a month? No, no special occasion at all.”
Chuck was apologetic. “Honey, I’m usually exhausted at the end of the week. You know that.”
“I do, and I also know you’re working way too hard. You’ve got gray patches at your temples, did you know that?”
“Well, it’s not as if I could turn the job over to someone else. I’m finally getting a handle on it, so maybe I’ll have more time for us now.”
#
Eight men sat around a table in Baku, Azerbaijan. Four of them had met before; the new arrivals were much more senior. In addition to the current head of Roscosmos, there were senior bureaucrats from other members of the Grand Alliance. For the moment, the alliance operated without public scrutiny. The American representative was Pinchot Forberger, now deputy chief of staff to the president of the USA. He opened the discussion.
“So far, nothing noteworthy has happened. That’s got to change. You Russians are even more desperate than the rest of us. Your space program is facing collapse and it’s not just the money, you’ve lost some of your best people. The brain drain has accelerated, now that your economy is headed into the tank. I question whether you can do your part. If you can’t get yourselves in gear, we’ll go ahead without you.
“I’m authorized to tell you that the US is going ahead with a plan that has several possible avenues to success. We will soon have a research program that’s similar to the Manhattan Project of the Second World War years. The tentative name is Project Los Angeles, and if you want to share in our discoveries, you’ll be expected to provide commensurate amounts of money. As for China, we expect your contribution will be to provide Project Los Angeles with money and the necessary rare earth elements. We expect that the project will need magnets that are unlike anything currently in existence. As for Europe, you need to make up for your failure to grab that crashed ship. Did you ever get anything from the two hijackers you captured?”
“No. Unfortunately, they died in prison. It is regrettable. There was a fight between prison gangs, I’m told.”
“So. Another failure. I question whether this alliance needs four members. We may decide to go it alone, but this time we’ll do it without your spies.” He pointedly looked at the Russians. “If we do succeed, we will expect considerably more than what you’ve done so far.”
“We also have excellent scientists,” grated the Chinese representative. “Perhaps we should also pursue an independent venture.”
“You have scientists, and they put out a lot of new papers every year, but how many are ever cited by other researchers? If other researchers don’t cite your discoveries, then how important are they? As for you Russians, you do have one asset we expect to need. Your rocket motors are still useful, although you haven’t improved the design in years. You also haven’t even attempted to launch unmanned probes, much less try for a landing on the moon. At least China has plans to do that. Do you have a timetable?”
“One year. If our vehicle is not ready, we have approval to purchase transport from New Frontiers. I would rather not do so, but if it is a question of using that company or not getting to the moon at all, we will pay their price. They’re very busy, your former countrymen. How many others are they carrying into space?”
“I can’t answer that. They’ve worked with several nations, I know that much, and I know the Saudis approached them but were turned away. There were a few face-saving reasons given, but the CIA believes NFI simply didn’t want to take the Saudis to space. Whether they refused other requests we just don’t know. As for Saudi Arabia, we think it has to do with the terrorism issue, but we can’t be certain. NFI won’t discuss it.”
“That seems somewhat high-handed of them. Pardon the pun; I did not mean to make a joke.”
“We will meet again, this time in Washington, in one month. Have someone at the meeting who is authorized to make a decision. Our people are getting impatient. I’ve told you our intentions, some of them, but there are other plans. Convince us that we should share our discoveries with you. So far, you’ve done nothing to convince me that your participation is worthwhile.” Forberger stood up and walked out of the room.
Chapter Eighteen
Six Months Later
Mark Triffin, the president’s chief of staff had grown blasé. The short, balding former mayor and company executive had long been accustomed to meeting rich and powerful people. Now he controlled access to the most powerful man in the world.
This morning’s meeting was between the two of them, just the president and himself, in the Oval Office. There had been many such.
Laying the laptop on the desk, he greeted his boss. “Good morning, Mister President. I’ve got the information you asked for. I didn’t want to put it on paper.”
“Probably a good idea, Mark, this place leaks like a sieve. Wipe the information after we’re done, okay? You found it once, you can find it again. Tell me about this NFI outfit.”
“It’s a private company, closely held. The original corporate filings were in Delaware, but the company moved their headquarters to Switzerland about three years ago. There were a number of investors in the beginning but they sold out to a man named Fuqua, who’s been running the company until a short time ago. We don’t have access to all the records, the Swiss are secretive as you know, but it appears that most of the stock is held by Fuqua, his daughter Felina, and her husband Charles Sneyd. Sneyd is the grandson of the man who invented the impeller. He worked on it too, so there’s more to him than just family connections. The fourth largest block of stock is held by Will Crane, the sole remaining investor from the original company. A few other shares are in the hands of employees, given as performance bonuses we believe, but Fuqua’s extended family holds more than half of the shares. They control NFI, in other words.”
“Go on. I’m having coffee, want some?”
“Thank you, sir. Yes, please.”
Mark waited while the president poured him a cup, then continued.
“There’s been a quiet shakeup, according to what we get from the Swiss. Fuqua is still chairman of the board, but Charles Sneyd now runs the company. He prefers to be called Chuck, Fuqua is known as Frenchy, and the daughter is Lina. They’ve renounced their American citizenship, that happened three months ago. Crane is still an American citizen, but it’s possible he’ll go that route too. We’re not certain, but it looks like Crane may have been pushed aside. He was on the books as executive vice president for operations, but at this time he’s on leave of absence. Sneyd was a minor player until a few months ago, but suddenly he’s chief executive, Fuqua has been pushed upstairs, and Crane is on leave of absence. The CIA thinks Sneyd may have engineered a coup.”
“So the company is headquartered in Switzerland and the people running it are no longer American. More tax evasion?”
“No sir, not this time. There was an accident, a death, and NFI refused to provide answers. There may have been other regulatory issues. There were court filings, but NFI shut down their factory and none of their senior people could be subpoenaed because they were out of the country. For all practical purposes, NFI shut down American operations except for a small contract with DARPA. They subsequently reorganized as an offshore company with a nominal headquarters in Switzerland, but with operations in a lot of countries.”
The president nodded while his chief of staff scrolled down the report and pointed to the screen.
“They had a factory in New Mexico to make the devices, that’s where the accident happened, but it’s closed now and listed for sale. It’s located on a ranch that belongs to Fuqua, and he wants to sell that too according to the real estate agent who lists it. A part of the ranch has already been sold. Fuqua built a generating system on the property, primarily to supply power to his factory but it was also tied into the grid. He was strapped for cash at the time, so he raised money by selling power through a New Mexico company. The eastern portion of the ranch, along with the power plant, was sold af
ter the factory was shut down. The CIA thinks Fuqua used the money and the income he got from government contracts to expand offshore. It’s a remarkable achievement; NFI may be the largest company in the world, based on net worth, but if not, it’s only a matter of time.”
The president held up his hand and Mark paused while he thought about it. “So NFI is big, but are they important? Walmart is big, but in the end they’re only stores, importers and resellers. If they went out of business, other companies would move in.”
“NFI’s different, Mister President. They’re not only diversified, but they hold a monopoly. As long as they’re the only ones with a functional space drive, they control space.”
“Continue with your briefing, Mark.” The president poured himself another cup of coffee.
“Fuqua wants to sell the factory and the ranch as a package. So far, no one is interested. It’s too bad, because the factory was essentially self contained. It even has its own airstrip.”
“So why did they shut it down?”
“As I mentioned, there was an accident and one of their employees was killed. The Department of Transportation got an injunction which would have forced them to cease operations temporarily, pending resolution of certain questions. The FAA was involved too. Instead, NFI shut the plant down and moved a part of their manufacturing operation to Mexico. They had a contract with the Defense Advanced Projects Agency, and they used the Mexican company to build the devices DARPA was interested in, at least some of the components. The Mexican company had nothing to do with the propulsion system, NFI did that themselves. It appears we, the government that is, helped finance the company’s development. But not anymore, they’re rolling in cash now. They’re working for a number of countries, launching satellites and so forth, but their primary business is hauling spent fuel rods to space. Several of our own companies would like to employ them, but the Nuclear Regulatory Commission balked. Congress won’t authorize it either. NFI’s ships have never undergone certification, they simply ignore any requests, and since they’re not an American company, there’s nothing we can do.”
