Code Of The Lifemaker

by Hogan, James

  sort of a woman screams like that? What do you—"

  "Me? Me? I am not screaming!"

  "Goddamit!"

  The exchange ended with a shout and the crash of breaking china as Joe Fellburg

  nipped a switch to cut off the sound. He sat back and cocked an inquiring eye at

  Zambendorf. "What do you think?" he asked.

  Zambendorf nodded and looked impressed as he ran his eye once more over the

  compact assembly of electronics and optical gadgetry that Fellburg had set up on

  a small table in an upper room in Zambendorf's villa. The equipment had "fallen

  off' a CIA truck and found its way to Fellburg via a devious route that involved

  one of his former military-intelligence buddies and a communications technician

  with a gambling problem. It contained a miniature infrared laser whose

  needle-fine beam was at that moment trained on the windowpane of a house almost

  a mile away. Soundwaves in the room caused the window glass of the distant house

  to vibrate; the vibrations of the glass were impressed upon the reflected laser

  light; and a demodulator system extracted the audio frequencies from the

  returned signal and fed them to a loudspeaker which reproduced the original

  sound. The device had all kinds of uses.

  "It's astonishing," Zambendorf said. "Do you know, Joe, this world will never

  cease to amaze me. There are silly people everywhere running around in circles

  looking for miracles, and all the time they're blind to the miracles right under

  their noses." He motioned with a hand. "I could never produce something like

  that in a hundred years."

  Fellburg shrugged and tipped his chair back to rest a heel on the window sill.

  "I was talking to Drew about this the other day. He had an idea that maybe the

  moisture variations that cause skin resistance to change might alter the way the

  beam's reflected off a person. If they do, then maybe you could detect it with

  this thing."

  Zambendorf looked at him for a few seconds. "What are you getting at—you mean it

  could monitor skin resistance changes remotely?"

  "I don't know, but maybe . . . kinda like a remote-acting polygraph. It might be

  possible to pick out the stress reaction of, say, one person in a group from

  across the street or wherever. It could have all kinds of potential."

  Zambendorf was looking intrigued. "It certainly could . . . When do you think

  you'll know something definite?"

  "Oh, give me, say, a couple of weeks to fool around with it some more. I oughta

  be—"

  The call tone from the comnet terminal across the room interrupted him.

  Zambendorf sauntered across to take the call. It was Thelma, speaking from

  downstairs. "I've got Caspar Lang from GSEC on the line. He wants to talk to

  you," she told him.

  "Put him through, Thelma." Zambendorf turned and sent Fellburg a satisfied grin.

  "Do you think it's what I think it is?" he asked.

  Fellburg raised his eyebrows. "I'd guess so. Anyhow, we'll soon find out."

  The flap inside NASO a few weeks previously had told Zambendorf and his team all

  they wanted to know about why Gerold Massey was being sent to Mars and NASO's

  determination to send him. It was strange, therefore, that after the dust had

  settled, Burton Ramelson should invite Massey to the banquet at his home in

  Delaware. The only reason Zambendorf or any of the others could think of for

  this was that GSEC had decided upon a last-ditch bid to buy Massey off although

  it seemed as obvious as anything could be that any such attempt would be a waste

  of time and effort. Zambendorf had guessed that, predictably and true to form,

  the GSEC executives would plod unwaveringly along their predetermined course

  nevertheless, and he had laid a bet with Otto Abaquaan that Lang would call

  within two days of the banquet to inform Zambendorf of the meeting with Massey

  that Zambendorf wasn't supposed to know about already.

  "Caspar, good evening," Zambendorf greeted as the screen came to life. "What

  time is it back East for goodness' sake—don't you people ever sleep? And what

  can I do for you?"

  "Hello, Karl," Lang acknowledged. As always he remained serious and came

  straight to the point. "Look, there's been a further development concerning

  Massey that you ought to know about."

  Zambendorf looked pained. "Oh dear, Caspar, sometimes I really do think you

  don't believe in me. Do you imagine that I don't know already?"

  Lang's face twitched in momentary irritation. "Karl, please, this is business.

  Let's be serious about it."

  "But I'm being perfectly serious. You and your colleagues tried to buy Massey

  off the mission with offers of plenty of funding for his research and all that

  kind of thing, and he wasn't interested. Is that about it, or did you have

  something else to add?" The guesses were the kind that Zambendorf felt

  comfortable with. For just an instant Lang seemed genuinely taken aback. "But my

  impressions can be vague at times," Zambendorf went on, smiling. "So yes,

  please, Caspar, do go ahead and tell me what happened."

  As Lang summarized the conversation with Massey, Zambendorf's eyes narrowed, and

  he listened more intently. He remained quiet, absorbed in his own thoughts for

  several minutes after Lang had cleared down. Fellburg said nothing and occupied

  himself with jotting down notes concerning the bugging device, eventually

  looking up and cocking an eyebrow when he sensed that Zambendorf was ready to

  say something.

  "Joe, are we that important on this mission ... I mean as far as GSEC is

  concerned?" Zambendorf asked.

  Fellburg frowned down over his hand while he stroked his mouth with the side of

  a finger. "Well, I guess it's still the way we talked about before—if lots of

  people get hyped up on space, it has to be good for business."

  "Yes, but isn't the main purpose of the mission to accumulate data for the

  future design of colonies?" Zambendorf asked.

  Fellburg nodded. "Yeah ... I guess so."

  "And nobody could argue that our being there is vital to that purpose, could

  they ... or even really that important?"

  "Nope ... I guess not."

  Zambendorf nodded, frowned to himself, and paced away to face the far wall.

  Silence fell again for a while. Then Zambendorf wheeled back. "It doesn't add

  up, Joe. Why would people like Burton Ramelson and Gregory Buhl involve

  themselves personally in something like this? It should have been left to the

  regular GSEC management minions. And if NASO wouldn't back down and the regular

  management couldn't handle it, then the whole idea should have been dropped. In

  fact that's probably what NASO expected. But it didn't work out that way. What

  do you make of it?"

  Fellburg stared hard at the table, but in the end shook his head with a heavy

  sigh. "Got me beat," he conceded.

  "It's this mission," Zambendorf said, moving slowly back toward the window.

  "There's something very strange about the whole situation . . . You know, I'm

  beginning to suspect there's a lot more behind it than anybody's been talking

  about. In fact, it's more than just a suspicion, Joe—it's a dead certainty."

  Fellburg pursed his lips while he considered the proposition. "A
ny ideas?" he

  asked at last.

  Zambendorf frowned. "Not at this stage. But if something's being hushed up and

  it concerns the purpose of the mission, it has to be something pretty big. Just

  think what a bonanza it could be for us if we called it before the public or

  anyone else knew anything." Zambendorf's eyes gleamed as he pictured it. "My

  nose tells me there's something to be found out that we could turn to our

  advantage somehow. I want to get the whole team working on it right away."

  8

  IN COMPARING THE EFFECTIVENESS OF VARIOUS WAYS OF IMPARTING momentum to a

  projectile, physicists employ the concept of "impulse," which is given by the

  product of the force acting on the projectile and the time for which it acts. In

  the case of a spacecraft, a key indicator of performance is the impulse per unit

  vehicle mass, or "specific impulse," which is measured in units of time and

  usually expressed as seconds. High specific impulses arise from propulsion

  systems that generate high-velocity exhaust products. The exhaust molecules from

  a hydrogen-oxygen rocket are ejected with velocities of the order of three

  kilometers per second, corresponding to a specific impulse of 450 seconds at

  best, with the result that interplanetary travel based on chemical propulsion is

  reckoned in years. A fusion reaction, by contrast, ejects plasma products over

  three hundred times faster and makes attainable specific impulses as high as

  100,000 seconds. That was why a fusion drive had been considered essential to

  maintaining a base on Mars, and why the Orion's projected flight-time was only

  fifty days.

  The Orion was built in two major parts—a forward section and an aft

  section—connected by a quarter-mile-long structural boom. Its tail end was open

  to space, and consisted of a framework of girders, struts, and tiebars forming

  four unenclosed, cylindrical thrust-chambers strapped together in a cluster like

  a bundle of squirrel cages. Frozen pellets of a deuterium-tritium mix were fired

  into the chambers in pairs twice every second and imploded on the fly by focused

  beams of accelerated ions to produce a succession of fusion

  microexplosions—miniature H-bombs. The electrically charged, high-velocity

  particles released in the process generated forward thrust by reacting on a

  configuration of concave magnetic fields, while the uncharged neutrons and

  x-rays, to which the magnetic mirrors were transparent, could escape harmlessly

  into space. Magnetohydrodynamic windings at the stem converted part of the

  outgoing exhaust energy into electrical power for driving the ion accelerators

  and the superconducting field-generators. The remainder of the aft section,

  forward of the radiation shield screening the drive chambers, contained the rest

  of the propulsion system, berthing facilities for the Orion's complement of

  reconnaissance craft and surface landers, and storage compartments for ground

  vehicles, construction materials, and heavy equipment.

  The forward end of the connecting boom terminated in a large, vaguely spherical

  housing, referred to in typically colorless NASO parlance as the Service Module,

  which contained the main air-generating plant and other systems essential to

  supporting life, plus an independent chemical motor and associated fuel tanks;

  in the event of an emergency the ship's entire tail could be ditched and the

  backup propulsion system used to get the mission home again.

  Accommodation for the vessel's occupants was distributed among four smaller

  spheres—Globes I through IV—located ahead of the Service Module and onset

  symmetrically from the centerline to form a square lying in a plane

  perpendicular to the main axis. Rotation of the entire ship about this axis,

  coupled with an arrangement for pivoting the spheres, enabled centrifugal and

  linear components of force to be combined into a resultant simulation of unit

  gravity normal to the floors, irrespective of the ship's acceleration. A fifth

  sphere—the Command Globe, containing the control and communications center—

  formed the Orion's nose, and was interconnected with the others and with the

  main structure by a web of supporting booms and communications tubes.

  "The god-awful ugliest thing I've ever seen in my life!" Clarissa Eidstadt said

  as the NASO European Division's shuttle closed in upon the Orion ten thousand

  miles above Earth. "What did they do—copy an eggbeater?" The team had been

  scheduled to shuttle up from El Paso, Texas, but was flown to Kourou, Guiana, at

  the last moment, because NASO officials had decided not to antagonize a protest

  rally that was besieging the El Paso facility. A chemical present in rocket

  exhaust had been found to cause cancer in mice when administered for six months

  in ten thousand times the concentration measured at the pad immediately after a

  launch.

  "Oh, I'm not so sure, Clarissa," Thelma said, leaning back in her seat and

  tilting her head to one side as she contemplated the image being shown on the

  cabin viewscreen. "In a way, I think it's quite beautiful."

  "You do? Then I'll know never to buy you an eggbeater as a present. You might

  frame it and hang it on the wall."

  "I'm not talking about how it looks," Thelma said. "I'm talking about what it

  represents. . . . One day people will probably go to the stars in something

  evolved from it."

  "How wonderful." Clarissa stared fish-eyed again at the screen through her

  butterfly spectacles. "Say, know what—my kitchen will never look the same again

  now you've said that."

  Osmond Periera, who was sitting a row ahead of them, turned his head. "I wonder

  if, when that happens, we'll have learned how to imitate the alien star

  travelers who visited Earth during the mid-Holocene period. It appears extremely

  likely that they navigated by means of reactive, psychosympathetic beacons tuned

  to their mental energy spectra. The geometric spacings of numerous ancient

  monoliths can be interpreted as yielding a mathematical series that reflects the

  corresponding psychic resonances."

  "Now I can sleep," Clarissa murmured dryly in Thelma's ear. "I've always

  wondered about those geometric monolith spacings."

  "That's really fascinating," Thelma said to Periera in a louder voice. "Is that

  why pyramids everywhere are the same shape?"

  Before Periera could answer, Joe Fellburg sat forward in the row behind, where

  he was sitting with Zambendorf and Otto Abaquaan, and frowned at the view of the

  Orion as it continued to enlarge on the screen. "What is it, Joe?" Drew West

  asked from his seat next to Thelma.

  Fellburg stared for a few seconds longer at the huge ship, surrounded by

  shuttles, service craft, and supply ships, and the loose cloud of containers,

  pipes, tubes, tanks, and assorted engineering that would gradually be absorbed

  inside during the remaining three days before liftout from Earth orbit. "See

  those three shuttles docked at the stem cargo section . . . and the other one

  standing off, waiting to move in?" he said at last.

  "What about them?" Thelma asked.

  "Those aren't standard NASO models. Two of them are military transports out of

  Vandenberg o
r Travis, and one of the others looks like a British air force troop

  carrier. What the hell are they doing here?"

  In the seat beside him, Zambendorf turned his head and gave Abaquaan an

  inquiring look. Abaquaan raised his eyebrows ominously. The anomaly of Ramelson

  and his colleagues' getting more involved in the mission than seemed reasonable

  had been followed by that of the training course at the NASO center at

  Charlotte, North Carolina, intended to provide the basic skills and knowledge

  needed by anyone flying with a space mission—how to put on and operate a

  spacesuit, the safety regulations enforced aboard spacecraft and in

  extraterrestrial habitats, emergency procedures, and so on. But the mission

  personnel whom they had met there had been of relatively junior status, such as

  engineers, scientists, maintenance technicians, medics, and administrators. The

  mission's senior management, officer corps, or whoever would constitute the

  upper levels of the organizational tree, had been conspicuous not only by their

  absence but by their not even having been mentioned. And as Drew West had

  observed, the mix of people encountered at the course and reflected in the

  personnel lists had seemed unrepresentative of the populations envisaged for

  space colonies. There were too many scientists and academic specialists:

  bacteriologists, virologists, biologists, physicists, chemists, sociologists,

  and psychologists . . . even some linguists and a criminologist. Obviously the

  mission offered many opportunities for diverse studies that the academic

  community couldn't be expected to miss—buses didn't leave for Mars every day of

  the week —but so many? And where were the agricultural technicians, the

  industrial workers, the clerks, and the service people who would be expected to

  make up a large percentage of any projected colony? Hardly any had been met.

  That seemed strange too.

  And now, apparently, a previously unannounced, and by all the signs not

  insignificant, military force would be coming too. It was in keeping with

  everything else he had been able to ascertain, Zambendorf reflected as he sat

  gazing at the screen. Although he was still not in a position to fit the pieces

  into a coherent pattern, there hadn't really been any doubt in his mind for a

  long time now: Something very unusual indeed was behind it all.