"How long does it take to get an evaluation approved now?" asked Len.
"It varies. But I've never seen it happen in less than two years, recently—and I've got one here that's been ten years and we're still going on it. You have to get yourselves on the right side of the argument, and that means working with the big outfits—maybe even learning law yourselves. But I can tell you, if I were a young man now, and I wanted to have a career in space work, I'd be in the Government. I've seen too many youngsters like you come here and go away disappointed."
He maneuvered them in front of him, so that Garry and Len again found themselves out in the long-dimly-lit corridor. Delso held out his hand.
"Good luck to both of you, however you decide to go. I just wish I had something more promising to tell you, but I don't. You can't beat the system, not the way it is now. Things have just got too complicated these days. So don't beat it, join it."
He locked the door and walked away, a jaunty little man with an overlong overcoat. Len and Garry looked after him in silence until he turned the corner and was out of earshot.
"What do you think, Len? Is he for real?"
Martello scowled at the wall, with its dirty peeling paint and broken light fixtures. "I think he must be. He was trying to help us. Why should he want to make anything up? If we try and get a positive evaluation out of this place, we'll still be working on it when we're as old as he is."
"Then I guess we ought to do what he says." Garry Scanlon was leaning against the wall, his shoulders slumped forward. "I don't want to waste my whole life fooling with those damn-fool regulations. I want to do something real, get a real job where I can see results. Let's get out of here. When we get back to Dayton I'm going to write off for an application to the Space Program."
"You'll apply for a Government position?"
"Right. Why don't we both do it?"
"No." Len's face was thoughtful. "Maybe you should do it, Garry. You're the technical brain, and you ought to be producing where you'll be most effective. I'm just not ready to give up yet."
"But what can you do, Len? It sounds as though every year there are a bunch of new regulations and a longer approval cycle."
"Sounds like it." Martello shrugged. "Delso sounded pretty convincing, but maybe he only knows his own little area. I'm going to try another approach—I'm damned if I'll give up yet. Not while there's a whole universe up there, waiting for us to get our act together."
* * *
Evaluation Petition Request 4146817180. (Martello and Scanlon, petitioners). Request denied on the following grounds: Code A3T, Insufficient evidence of affirmative action plan; Code B77G, Failure to comply with Child Welfare Act A-15, Amendment 5; Code G23R, Failure to provide statement of intended uses of Inland Waterways; Code R3H, Insufficient evidence of adherence to Privacy Statute D-04; Code T1TF, Failure to provide evidence of recycling (materials SIC 01,03) in processing of limited supply substances.
* * *
Len—the ticket will be waiting when you get here (for the launch viewing, I'm afraid, not for the flight!) If you can get down to the Cape a day early I'll show you the sights. We've got two Orbiters in Maintenance. You'll see how far we've come since last time you were here.
Seen the new Lunar Treaty yet? It's a bummer. NASA's official line is that everything is fine, but you should hear the contract support staff. Nobody's ready to put a wooden nickel into space investment until it's clear who'll own what.
I was up at Wright-Patterson a couple of weeks ago, looking at hi-temp tiles. Know who I ran into in Dayton? Old Uncle Seth. Told him you were off studying law and I thought he'd break down and cry. Looks as though the old stories are right, he really is hooch-peddling on the side. Remember those cases in his garage every Christmas? He's in great shape, must be nearly eighty but you'd never know it. Pickled in his own product, it can't be too bad.
It looks iffy on Lungfish. The industrial consortium is backing off, not sure they can raise more money. Macintosh and his committee are against Government assistance, say it's more pie in the sky.
You getting near the end up there yet? Remember, if you can't take New York any more there's always a job here at the Cape. I've got so many equal opportunity quotas round my neck—be nice to have somebody round here who can change a light bulb without an instruction manual. I've never told anyone you're a budding lawyer, they think you're an engineering buddy from way back.
Don't get the wrong idea about this place, it's not all roses. I'll tell you some of my problems when you get here.
Stick in there with the tort and malfeasance. Jennie says hi.
Garry.
* * *
SUPREME COURT UPHOLDS DECISION ON POWERSATS. In a landmark decision, the Supreme Court today upheld last July's Superior Court finding that the construction of solar power satellites offers an unacceptably high risk to human life and health. In a seven to two decision, with Justices Stewart and Basker dissenting, the Court ruled that possible future power shortages cannot be used to undermine the force of existing laws. Microwave radiation levels near the receiving rectennas of the proposed power stations would exceed recent Federal maximum levels by a factor of three or more.
In a minority opinion, the dissenting justices referred to the billion dollar investment that has already been made in the powersats, to the overwhelming need to build some independence from imported fossil fuels, and to the poor understanding of the effects of microwave radiation. Justice Basker stated: "We are condemning our children and our children's children to a life of reduced options, in order to satisfy a set of arbitrary standards on radiation levels that is neither clearly understood nor fully supported by scientific experts."
This ruling by the Court confirms similar decisions made by the European, Russian and Chinese Governments. The Japanese Parliament is currently debating the same issue. . . . UPI NEWS RELEASE.
* * *
"Assholes." Len Martello slapped his hand down flat on top of the newspaper. "They have no idea what they're doing. Here we are in the middle of the worst set of brown-outs we've ever seen on the East Coast, and those silly old bastards decide to cut off one of the only decent alternatives."
Garry Scanlon looked at him in surprise. Len was even thinner than the last time they had met, and his dark hair was already beginning to show the first strands of grey. The scar on his left upper lip seemed more prominent than before, pulling that side of his mouth up and giving a slightly manic look to his whole face.
"It's not just the Supreme Court in this country, Len—look at the rest of the countries, too."
"I am looking at them. Just because they walk off a cliff doesn't mean we have to. Ah, hell, what's the point." He folded up the newspaper. "I guess they don't care what happens twenty years from now, they'll all be dead."
He looked across the table at his friend. Garry Scanlon was showing his own first signs of aging. The fair hair was receding a trace at the temples, and he no longer looked as though his face had never felt a razor. There was a tough, straw-colored stubble on his chin, and his eyes were tired and black-edged.
Garry slipped a couple of dollars under the glass ashtray and stood up.
"Come on. We might as well get out of here and over to the launch site. I agree with you about the way they're handling powersats, but it's not just an isolated case."
"I know. I've been following the appropriations cycle in Washington. But I thought you'd be free of it down here. Your programs are on the move, aren't they?"
"Yeah. We're on our way up Shit Creek. It's as frustrating here as it was when we were just a two-man show, back in Dayton."
Len was shielding his eyes against the bright Florida sunshine. He whistled.
"Bad as that, eh? I thought you'd got rid of the problems when you joined NASA."
"So did I."
"So what's gone wrong?"
Garry rubbed at his chin and shook his head. "I just wish I knew. Last time I wrote to you we had, oh, I guess fourteen hardwar
e developments stalled. We had four briefs in preparation, and just one piece of gear approved. Know what the score is now? Eighteen in evaluation, and no new ones approved. Zero."
They climbed into the buggy and began the short drive back to Launch Control. The half-liter engine had a top speed of less than forty miles an hour, but it was a real miser on fuel oil. Len struggled out of his jacket and held it on his lap as they puttered their way over the heat-soaked roadway.
"Are you telling me it's as hard to get anything done in Government as it is outside it? I thought that was the whole point of the NASA job."
"So did I." Garry shrugged. "We have to fill out all the same bullshit, get everybody and his uncle to say yes. There's only one difference—I don't go broke waiting, the way that we did. That makes it a bit easier to take."
Ahead of them, the eight-wheeled support vehicles had finished their final service and were crabbing away from the foot of the gantry. A mournful siren began its booming call across the flat Florida landscape.
"Five minutes," said Garry. "Come on, we ought to be inside the blockhouse."
"One more minute." Len had descended from the buggy and was standing on the concrete, drinking in the scene in front of them. His face was excited. "My God, Garry, this is what it's all about. I should be doing what you're doing instead of fucking about up north. It will be years before I take the Bar exams, longer than that before I can do anything useful."
"Don't let this mislead you." Garry took his arm and began to draw him into the protected area. "This launch will look great—they always do. But we're down again by another twenty percent from last year. The Shuttle works like a dream now—whenever we can get approval to do anything useful with it. We've done all the easy stuff"—he waved his arm with its wrist radio—"but there's nothing new about antenna farms. Dammit, they've been around for fifteen years now. We have to see some new starts."
The siren had changed to a more urgent, high pitched note as they entered the blockhouse. Len went at once over to the display screen. The silver Orbiter with its solid boosters and external tank looked fat and clumsy, too squat and awkward ever to leave the ground.
"Two minutes," said Garry, sitting down next to him.
"So it's the way we figured it." Len didn't take his eyes from the screen. "We're going to lose out to the other countries—we won't even come in second."
"Maybe not that bad." Garry's voice was baffled."I thought the way you did, until I went over to Geneva for the last joint meeting. Now, I'm not so sure. Hold it, now, we're on the final thirty seconds."
They sat silent as the last seconds of the countdown ticked away. On cue, the swell of flame appeared at the base of the rocket and the assembly began its first stately lift-off. Inside the concrete block-house, four miles from launch, the noise was still deafening.
Garry flicked in the tracking monitor, split-screen from the rising Shuttle and the down-range cameras. "She's away. Watch that status display, any second now we'll get solid booster separation. We'll have an accurate trajectory back here in a couple more minutes, but from the look of it she's going to orbit with no problems."
He turned away from the screen, swinging his chair to face Len. "That's what makes me sick. See those boosters? Ten years, and we still use solids. We should have had liquid reuseables years ago. The Space Tug's still on the drawing boards, and we're further from nuclear propulsion than we were in 1960. The International Affairs people in Washington are so sensitive about Test Ban agreements that we can't even mention nuclear any more, not even for comparative studies."
Len was still hungrily drinking in the displays. This was the real thing—the action was here, not back in New York fiddling with precedent, regulation, and who won in Soriba versus Rockwell, 1982. What was the point of all that legal effort, if it didn't lead to this? He watched until the final sign of the ascending Obiter was gone from all the displays, then turned at last to Garry.
"We must be losing out. I've been looking at the patents filed, things are going slower than ever. Our own system is killing us—strangling us. Remember our oath? At this rate we'll never do it."
"I know. But Len, you're wrong on one thing. We're not losing out. Everybody seems to be in the same boat."
"Slowing down?" Len's attention was suddenly all on Garry.
"And how. China, Russia, Japan, Europe, Australia—all over. Everybody has a space program in trouble. We keep trying to move ahead, but there's more and more red tape and bureaucratic bumscratching. You'll find this hard to believe, but we're not doing at all badly here."
"Everyone's strangling? What about the Brazilians?"
"Just as bad. Hell, if there were any place better, I'd go there, but I can't find a cure anywhere in the world."
Len turned back to the displays. On the one showing the launch area, a large black automobile was crawling slowly towards the pad. Windows of tinted glass made it impossible to see the interior, but it looked like a great hearse moving across the concrete. Len stared at it, a sudden speculation showing on his face.
"Maybe there is an answer. Garry, remember the oath? Meet on the Moon, July 20th, 1999, and drink a toast."
"We weren't the only ones that made it, I'll tell you that. Lots of the guys here did the same thing when they were kids. Better face it, Len, something took a wrong turn. A lot of us want space—millions of us, if NASA's mail means anything—but there's no mechanism any more. We've got technology, all we need. But we'll never make it through all the control and half-assed regulations. You ought to recognize that, too. Come on down here, there's still a job for you."
"Yeah." Len's eyes were still fixed on the black limousine. "Maybe, if all else fails . . ."
"All else has failed. The bureaucrats are in charge, all over the world."
"Not quite. I haven't given up the idea of legal loopholes completely. But if it doesn't work, I have another thought. What's that limo out there make you think of?"
"Eh?" Garry turned to the screen. "The VIP tour car? Beats me. Funeral parlors? Al Capone and Lucky Luciano? Henry Ford?"
"Pretty close with one of those. Look, Garry, I need to bounce something off you. Can we go for another beer?"
Garry looked doubtful. "I told Jennie we'd be home early for dinner."
"Still interested in drinking that toast?"
"All right." Garry sighed. "I'll call and tell her we'll be late. I know a bar where they don't blast muzak down your ear. If we don't get through by eight, though, you'll have to tell me the rest of it over at the house."
* * *
The winter storm had surprised everyone with its ferocity. After three days at a standstill, the ploughs were finally beginning to make an impression on the Dayton suburbs. Len stood inside the bitterly cold garage and looked out through grime-coated windows at the blown snow drifts. He had been waiting for almost half an hour in the unheated building.
"All right." The big man had slipped through from the inner office so quietly that Len had not heard him arrive. "You can come in now. But hold still while I check you over."
"Somebody already did that."
"Yeah." There was a gruff chuckle in the darkness. "But that was twenty minutes ago. Meyer likes people who are thorough. O.K., you're clean. Keep your hands behind you and go on in."
Inside there was more light but no heat. Len shivered and walked forward to the old table. A little man with thick grey hair, carefully styled, sat behind it. Len received a long, measured stare before Sal Meyer again bent his head to the papers spread out in front of him.
"So all right." Meyer was wearing thick woollen gloves with just the fingertips cut away. "So you're Seth's nephew. Yeah, I can maybe see his look there. You're a Martello, you got the nose."
Dark eyes flashed up from their inspection of the papers and fixed again on Len's face. "You got fancy degrees, one in engineering and one in law. Now, you tell me what you want a job with us for. There's lots of other places you could work, no sweat for finding a job for your
self."
Len took a deep breath. "Money. I want to make a lot of it."
"You could do that in a law practice just as easy. Crooks, all of 'em, but you never see one in jail."
"But I don't see why I should work eighty hours a week, just to pay it in taxes."
That produced the first trace of a smile from Meyer. "You got me there. That's what I hated worst of all when I worked in City Transport. The big gouge, I call it." The smile was suddenly gone. "All right, you want a job with us. Now tell me what you got that I can't get better from Jake and Rocky behind you. Do it quick, before we all freeze to death here."
"I've talked to Uncle Seth. He wouldn't tell me much—"
"Bet your ass he wouldn't—not if he wanted to stay well."
"—but he made me think you've probably got problems with distribution, and maybe with quality control. I think I can help with both. I've controlled a fractional distillation line, I know how to check for fusel oils."
Sal Meyer held up his hand. "I talked to Seth, too. Look, I don't care about the quality end of it. If people are willing to drink it, or run their buggies on it, that's not my problem. Distribution is—specially with the way the pay-offs have been screwed up with the new Chief of Police. How greedy are you?"
"Try me and see."
Meyer grinned again. "Let me tell you the rules. I don't care where you make your money, how you spend it—except when it's in my area. I've got drugs, and I've got gambling. Anything that you make in that area, I take a third. If you want to get into booze and pimping, that's up to you. I don't ask for a piece. But remember, you get in trouble in those areas and you're on your own. I won't make one phone call to help you. If it's trouble you get into on my business, you'll have the best lawyers money can buy. You married?"
"No."
"Kids?"
"No."
"All right. For a married man, I look after the wife and kids if he goes inside." Meyer looked at Len curiously. "What do you do for fun?"
"I keep busy." Len cleared his throat. "I gather you're offering me a job, then?"
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