“What’s she saying?” Gwen whispered to the others in alarm.
Luke flushed with anger. “She’s saying that she’ll sign our death warrant.”
“Hold on, people,” Townsend urged. “I’m sure Dr. Sherman knows what she’s doing.” Gwen looked at Townsend. He sure didn’t sound sure.
Unperturbed, Rebecca continued her lecture. “However, the issue in science is never one of absolute empirical proof. No one can ever know anything on the basis of empirical proof. On the basis of the type of empirical proof Dr. Kowalski requests here, no one can ‘know’ that the sun will rise tomorrow. Actual predictive knowledge, as opposed to mere customary belief, requires a theoretical framework. We ‘know’ that the sun will rise tomorrow because we know celestial mechanics. The Earth rotates, and it will continue to rotate, because the laws of physics mandate that angular momentum be conserved. We know that the sun will rise tomorrow not because we have records that it rose many times in the past, but because we know why it must.”
McGee nodded approvingly. “I think I see where she’s going.”
“Biology is not a branch of witchcraft,” Rebecca went on. “It is a science. It has laws. Laws of evolution, adaptation, and system development. One of those laws is that disease organisms are specifically adapted to their hosts. The bacteria and viruses that infect humans have been co-evolving with our ancestors for the past four billion years. They have been engaged in a four-billion-year-long arms race to maintain their ability to breach the defenses that have continually been evolving in the bodies of our ancestors. No would-be pathogenic species that has failed to track us in this way has the remotest chance of infecting us. That is why human beings do not catch Dutch elm disease, and trees do not catch head colds. It’s utterly impossible.”
“Good point,” Townsend noted.
“These Martian microorganisms have been separated from the terrestrial biosphere for their entire evolutionary history. All the laws of biological science tell us that the notion that they could be pre-adapted to represent a pathogenic threat to any Earth-based life is not only incorrect but intrinsically absurd—acausal reasoning.
“However, harmless as they are, the Martian microbes represent a genetic treasure, as they have developed means for survival in extremely arid and cold environments. If their genes could be appropriately spliced with terrestrial plants, it could lead to species with the ability to grow in the Arctic or in the harshest deserts, thereby alleviating world hunger. To forego such benefits on the basis of a superstitious and nonsensical argument that an endless program of laboratory research needs to be conducted to prove the absence of risk from such a source is not rational. It is mindless hysteria, and a complete abandonment of the scientific method.”
Rebecca waved her hand to McGee to turn the transmitter off.
The historian slapped down the stop switch. “Well, you may not have stopped them from killing us, but at least you got in a few good insults.”
HOUSTON
JAN. 28, 2012 16:20 CST
In the examiners’ meeting room at the Johnson Space Center, Rebecca’s broadcast was just concluding. Kowalski frowned in disgust. “That’s all she had to say? I have never heard so much empty rhetoric masquerade as science in my entire life.”
NASA Administrator Ryan smiled. “Actually, George, I think she just cut your balls off.”
“I quite agree,” said Dr. Wong flatly. “It is necessary, however, for the board to vote on the substance of the matter. All those who believe that the level of risk is low enough to allow the crew to return, please signify now by raising their right hand.”
Ryan raised his hand immediately, followed by a few of the assembled scientists. Not enough, Ryan thought. Then Dr. Wong raised her own hand, and others followed, until all hands but Kowalski’s were raised.
Agitated, the Science and Security Advisor looked around the room for support. Finding none, he reluctantly raised his own hand in agreement with the rest.
CHAPTER 12
HOUSTON
JAN. 28, 2012 17:30 CST
TWILIGHT ILLUMINATED THE lawn in front of the examiners’ meeting-room building at the JSC. The gathered security guards cast long shadows. Nearby, the usual group of a few pro-crew demonstrators maintained their vigil, listening to a folksinger strum the chords to the final verses of “The Beagle Has Landed.”
Beyond the pro-crew demonstrators, a huge crowd chanted “Keep Earth Green! Keep Mars Red!” As they marched in front of a bandstand, the agitated people carried signs decorated with green crosses. On the platform, Gary Stetson and the Reverend Bobby Joe Stone stirred up the crowd in anticipation as Administrator Ryan, Surgeon General Wong, and the JSC security chief approached a podium in front of the main NASA building across the way.
Looking proud and satisfied, Ryan stepped up to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that the examining board has reached a decision. It is the unanimous verdict of the board, based on sound scientific principles and investigation, that the Martian microorganisms represent no threat, and that the crew be allowed to continue their mission and at the appointed time return safely to Earth.”
An instant cheer went up from the pro-crew demonstrators, but a split-second later the anti-crew mob screamed in outrage.
Stetson could not believe it. “This is genocide! This is ecocide! You’ll never get away with this.” He turned to his followers. “They’ve signed all of our death warrants!”
From a distance, Ryan looked directly at Stetson. “The board’s decision is final.”
The NASA Administrator’s aloofness was even more infuriating than his decision. Stetson’s blood boiled, and his anger reflected in his crowd of supporters. “No it’s not!” he yelled. “Let’s get them!”
Stetson’s supporters seemed confused, but he knew what to do. Grabbing a green cross, he charged off the stand and ran directly at the pro-crew demonstrators. Immediately he was flanked by his hired shills, carrying along several dozen of the most volatile members of his crowd.
By the time Stetson’s vanguard crashed into the pro-astronaut picket line, the mass of Redpeace demonstrators had begun to surge forward. The scuffle began, the two groups striking at each other with signs and placards, kicks and fists. In most places along the skirmish line Stetson’s mob prevailed, but in some instances they were driven back into the main Redpeace mass, knocking down some of the older Fundamentalist folks.
That ignited the main Redpeace contingent’s rage, and they rushed forward, scattering the pro-spacers like chaff. It was a total rout. Some spacers fled toward the uneasy police line. The slower ones didn’t make it that far.
As Stetson watched, the folksinger who had initially rallied the pro-spacers was caught in her flight and trampled to the ground. Her guitar was smashed. Now an army in full charge, the Redpeace mob hit the line of police and NASA security guards who tried to resist with billy clubs, but were quickly overwhelmed. A few cops farther back shot tear-gas canisters, which were promptly picked up by several of the bolder Redpeace members and hurled back.
But the whiff of tear gas had done its work: Within seconds, the Redpeace mob was completely out of control. When the secondary police line broke, the crowd began smashing windows and lighting fires.
From the balcony of the main building, Dr. Wong surveyed the advancing rioters and turned to the JSC security officer standing beside her. “Is there a back way out of this building?”
“Yes, right this way.” As the dignitaries were shown to safety, the uniformed man picked up his cellular phone. “This is Captain Martino at JSC. Get me the governor’s office.”
HOUSTON
JAN. 28, 2012 19:55 CST
That night the Johnson Space Center burned.
Sirens howled as torched buildings exploded into flame. Firefighters attempting to reach the engulfed buildings were stopped by the screaming mob. NASA employees attempted to defend their offices and labs, but in most places were routed.
“Mars has monsters, yes it does!” the Reverend Stone intoned. “Those monsters may be too small for the naked eye to see, but they can murder your mother, your father, your sweetheart, and your sons and daughters.”
The camera zoomed in on Stone’s face, illuminated with flickering yellow-orange firelight. “Those astronauts on Mars are contaminated with red death, the mother of all plagues. They went where human beings were not meant to go, and now they must pay the price. Them, not us!”
A fire engine screeched to a halt in front of the burning Public Information building, but before the firefighters could act, the mob pulled them out of the cab and beat them senseless. Then, grabbing the firemen’s axes, enraged Redpeace adherents chopped through the hoses, and charged off to assault another fire truck that had just pulled up. Nearby, men in leather jackets systematically smashed in the windows of cars marked NASA—Government Use Only.
Televangelist Stone brushed from his shoulder a charred fragment of CADprint without taking his eyes off the camera. He raised his rich voice. “The safety of our entire world must come before that of a handful of overpaid daredevils. They knew the risks when they set forth, but let the lure of fame and fortune lead them on. Well, now it’s time for them to pay the piper. The wages of sin are death. The astronauts must never, never come home.”
The sermon continued until it was interrupted by the arrival of a helicopter, which hovered overhead, dropped down cables, and released a swarm of camouflaged SWAT team security guards carrying automatic weapons. Hitting the ground running, the team deployed quickly to secure a perimeter under sporadic fire. That done, waves of additional helicopters carrying reinforcements rapidly swelled the numbers of the forces of order.
But they were too late to save Mission Control from the mob. Using a steel desk from the lobby as a battering ram, the rioters knocked down the locked doors, then brushed aside the makeshift force of security guards and NASA personnel who tried to stop them near the entrance. Seconds later, the nerve center of the American space program was in chaos. Glass shattered as a volley of stones hurled by several of the invaders crashed through the main viewscreen.
Phil Mason, head of Mission Control, clung to his post like a captain on a sinking ship. Ducking the glass fragments, he picked up his microphone. “Mason to Security! They’ve broken in! We need help fast!”
As the mob smashed their way inside, most of the Mission Control operators picked up chairs or fire extinguishers to try to mount a defense. As they did, Darrell Gibbs—Special Assistant to the White House Science and Security Advisor—ran to the far side of the room and pounded in numbers on his special cell phone.
Craig Holloway, Mission Control’s cheek-pierced ecogoth, also dodged the intruders. Running from one console to the next, he typed on one station after another, ignoring the plight of the diminutive Alicia Castillo, who struggled desperately with a very large attacker.
Al Rollins tried to keep his post, but was hurled to the ground by a member of the mob. Rollins scrambled free, only to find another madman about to chop him with a fire ax.
Then a SWAT team entered the room. There was a hail of gunfire, and the ax-wielder was cut down.
“Everybody freeze!” the SWAT officer shouted. “All non-NASA personnel are under arrest.”
As the protesters were rounded up and led out, Rollins surveyed the damage. Mission Control was a shambles. Finding himself at Craig Holloway’s desk, he noticed with annoyance a copy of a book called Enthalpy sticking out of the ecogoth’s briefcase.
Rollins limped over to his own station and sat down. Monitoring the readouts, he typed a few keystrokes, and threw a switch.
MISSION CONTROL, NASA, JSC
JAN. 29, 2012 09:30 CST
By the next morning Mission Control was still a mess, but had begun to function again. Al Rollins, his face bruised, sat at his console running status checks. He motioned Mason over. “Chief, I think we have a serious problem here.” Rollins showed Mason his indicator readings.
The Mission Control chief looked at the data in horror. “That can’t be. Have you checked the secondary readouts?”
“There’s no doubt about it. The propellant tanks in the ERV Retriever at Mars Base One are empty. Telemetry from the onboard vehicle health-maintenance recorder indicates that the Retriever’s computer ordered the propellant vent valves opened at 0219 GMT last night. By 0240 the tanks were empty.”
Mason forced himself to be calm. “0219 GMT. That would be 8:19 PM here, just a few minutes after the fight. No wonder no one caught the malfunction. Well, at least the crew still has the backup ERV Homeward Bound, in Valles Marineris. Quick, check its tanks.”
Rollins typed furiously and a new page of data appeared upon his console screen. He looked up, stunned. “Empty. I don’t get it. An identical malfunction happened at the exact same time.”
By this time a crowd of Mission Control operators had gathered around Rollins’s console, listening in and peering at the data readouts.
“Chief, they’re stranded!” Rollins finally cried in dismay.
“Dead is more likely,” interjected Tex Logan.
Alicia Castillo looked at the others with astonishment. “Why? Why can’t we just send out another ERV?”
“Laws of celestial mechanics,” Craig Holloway answered. “The next launch window to Mars would get a new ERV there after next year’s return launch window to Earth closes.”
“And the next return launch window after that?” Alicia pressed.
“Not for another two years. The crew’s consumables will run out long before.”
Alicia drummed her fingers nervously, then banged her fist down on Rollins’s console. “Well, then, we could send out another Hab filled with supplies.”
Tex Logan regarded the diminutive Hispanic woman with sympathy. “We could, if Congress would come up with a two-billion-dollar add-on to the program to fund it. With public opinion running the way it is, there’s not much chance of that happening.”
Rollins interrupted. “Chief, we’ve got telemetry coming in from Beagle.”
“Put it on your screen.”
Townsend’s image appeared on Rollins’s TV monitor. “This is Colonel Townsend. Last night a signal was received here from the DSN that caused the ERV Retriever to completely vent its tanks. I demand an immediate explanation.” The screen went blank.
“Now that is one pissed-off fella,” Logan drawled.
Rollins faced Mason anxiously. “He’s nuts. We didn’t uplink any commands last night.”
Alicia sat down at her station and began to check the log. She typed several sets of commands and then froze, staring at her screen. “No, he’s right. DSN records show a data transmission out of Goldstone at 6:03 P.M. Pacific Standard Time last night.”
Mason felt faint. “What? Authorized from where?”
“According to Goldstone records, it was authorized from here. By you.”
Hostile eyes turned on the Mission Control Chief of Operations. “Wait a second! You don’t think that I—wait, 6:03 Pacific, that’s eight o’clock here. About the time of the riot. I wasn’t the only person here at that time who knew the DSN command authorization. There was Rollins and Holloway and . . .”
“That’s all,” Tex Logan concluded.
“Hey, I didn’t do it,” Rollins said. “I couldn’t have. I had my hands full fighting a maniac with an ax.”
Alicia Castillo turned and faced the remaining suspect. “But Craig stayed out of the fight.” Her voice was cold.
“No I didn’t,” Holloway protested. “I . . .”
Cold went to hot. “Yes you did, you coward!” Alicia exploded. “I saw you! I was being strangled on this desk, and you were si
tting there, not four feet away. You didn’t lift a finger to help me. You were too busy typing something.”
“OK, I released the evening news data update and E-mail bin. That’s all. I thought it important for the crew to get it before the mob shut us down.”
Alicia persisted, “Then why all the typing? You could have sent that with a couple of keystrokes.”
“I was safeguarding the controls.” Holloway started backing away. “In the middle of that melee, if someone bumped them accidentally, it could’ve . . .”
Rollins walked slowly over to Holloway’s desk and pulled a copy of Enthalpy from the ecogoth’s briefcase. “Interesting reading, Craig. That Stetson guy is pretty thought provoking, isn’t he?”
Now the predatory eyes turned to the ecogoth, who looked more and more like a cornered rat. “You guys want to scapegoat me! You’re going to blame me for your own screw ups. Fine, go ahead and say I did it. Tell the world that I saved the Earth. Send me to prison if you like, I don’t care. You technofreaks think you’re so smart with all your gadgets, but you never think of the consequences of what you’re doing. Doesn’t it mean anything to you that if those astronauts come home, it could mean death to every living thing on this planet? Don’t you even care?”
Mason exchanged a knowing look with Gibbs, then motioned to two security guards by the door. “Get this piece of garbage out of here.”
As the guards handcuffed Holloway and led him out, Gibbs turned to Logan. “Well, Tex, there’s your man.”
Logan appeared thoughtful, as if he was not quite convinced. “Seems that way.”
Mason picked up his phone. “This is Phil Mason in Mission Control. Get me Administrator Ryan.”
WHITE HOUSE MEETING ROOM
FEB. 4, 2012 13:00 CST
Several hours later, a glum group consisting of the President and the First Lady, NASA Administrator Ryan, Surgeon General Wong, political strategist Wilson, Media Chief Wexler, Science and Security Advisor Kowalski, and General Winters met again in the Adams Room to consider the Administration’s options.
First Landing Page 10
