“Certainly, Mr. Rich,” she tinkled at him. “Professor Koplin’s in there now, but Annette says for you and Mr. Carter to come right in as soon as you arrive.” She flapped eyelashes at Bruce. “I just love your books, Mr. Carter.”
“Thanks,” Bruce said. The inane thought came to him that he had never expected to find readers of his a quarter of a million miles or so from home, but here everybody was claiming to be a fan of his.
Meeting Dr. Solomon Ryan for the first time had its shocking aspects. The man was uncanny. His personality reached out across the room and grasped you. Bruce Carter had heard of the phenomenon before. It was said that Dwight Eisenhower had it, and Churchill and Hitler, for that matter. His charm captivated you, even before words were exchanged.
He was seated behind a desk overrunning with papers, books, pamphlets, charts, blueprints, and even a breakaway model of Island One. The other two occupants of the room were an energetic, albeit sensuous-looking brunette seated to the side and behind a smaller desk, and a short, rounded, somewhat clown-like man in rumpled, poorly fitting Earth clothing and wearing thick-lensed, steel-bound spectacles in an age when old fashioned eyeglasses were passé, contact lenses and eye surgery having taken over.
The fat man was bent over Ryan’s desk, excitedly pointing to a paper and squeaking out a protest.
Dr. Ryan looked up and grinned at the newcomers. “Sit down, boys,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a minute. I remember talking to you on the phone, Bruce, but we didn’t meet. This is Professor Rudi Koplin, my scientist of all trades, and my built-in gooser. And, oh, yes, Doctor Annette Casey, my brains, arms, and alarm clock.”
“Your feet would be a better description,” she said tartly. “You keep mine working running your errands.” She looked at Bruce and said, “Likewise,” before he could get out his, “Pleased to meet you.”
Ron Rich and Bruce took chairs and held silence while Ryan wound up his interview with the professor.
Rudi Koplin was saying excitedly, ignoring the newcomers as though they weren’t there, “Doctor, it would seem to be something that no one has thus far considered. And I have dire fears it might well doom the prospects of ever building the larger islands.”
Ryan smiled his doubts of that and said, “You’ve had dire fears before, Rudi. I sometimes suspect you Poles are born with dire fears. Very well, what is this new crop?”
“Sol, Sol,” the other objected. “Always you laugh. Very well, it is this. Humans must have phosphorus in the form of phosphates in their food. But the lunar phosphorus content is not as high as we once estimated. So phosphates for fertilizer in the space islands will have to come from Earth.”
“So,” Ryan said. “We’ll bring it from Earth, along with the multitude of other things that will continue to be needed from there.”
“Ah, so, but that is it,” the rounded man said in despair. “On Earth we are already in phosphate trouble. The best estimates put us all but completely out of phosphates between the years 2010 and 2030.”
Solomon Ryan pushed back in his chair and looked at the other for a moment. The other stared back, as though apologetic for bringing bad news. His deep affection for the younger man was obvious in his face.
Ryan said, “Rudi, when we get these SPS’s really going, we will have at our disposal an infinite amount of power.”
“But power isn’t phosphorus, Sol!”
“Strangely enough, it is. For decades, Rudi, we’ve had transmutation of elements in the laboratory. The Philosopher’s Stone, long sought by the Alchemists to turn base metals into gold, has been found. To date, it has not been practical, since to change, say, lead into gold, is such an expensive undertaking that the cost is much, much more than the value of the gold realized.” He chuckled. “I don’t actually have the figures, but I understand that to create ten cents worth of gold from lead would cost at least a million dollars. However, practically all of the cost is power.”
The Polish scientist’s face fell as realization came to him. “And given infinite power, all but free from the sun…”
“Yes,” Ryan said. “We’ll create not only our own phosphorus, but will export it to Mother Earth.”
“Sol, you are a genius,” Rudi Koplin said with emotion in his squeaky voice. He gathered his papers from the desk, bowed at the newcomers and to Annette Casey, and trundled to the door and out.
Annette looked at her superior skeptically. “Now that’s really something to come off the top of your head at a minute’s notice,” she told him.
Ryan grinned at her. “You’d better put a few of the boys on it,” he said. “It’s a problem for the future but the sooner it’s looked into, the better.”
She said, “Are you sure that you can create phosphorus in the laboratory from other elements?”
His contagious grin widened. “If they can make gold, why not?”
He turned to Bruce and the PR head. “Draw up closer, boys,” he told them.
Solomon Ryan was a slight man and gave the impression of being unflappably, perpetually optimistic. And, above that, he had the power to bring out the same quality in those who met him. He projected confidence.
As Bruce brought his chair up nearer the desk, the space pioneer reached over and shook hands, his blue eyes registering sincere pleasure in meeting the newcomer.
“Bruce Carter,” he smiled. “For us, possibly the most dangerous man alive.”
“We could always shoot him,” Annette said. “I read your last book, Mr. Carter. Is there anything left of the gambling industry?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Bruce smiled back. “And there’s no percentage in shooting me. I left notes with various friends and my bank, to be opened in case of my death. The notes read simply, Annette done it.”
She snorted at that. “You hadn’t even heard of me ten minutes ago.”
Bruce said, carrying it on, “Au contraire, m’dear! Ron, here, told me all about you fifteen minutes ago. He said everybody loved you. And then added that he didn’t know why.”
Annette’s dark eyes went to the flack, who winced. “My chum-pal,” she said.
Ryan was chuckling at the banter. He said, “Well, in spite of appearances to the contrary, this office is a very busy one. Should we get down to the nitty-gritty? Bruce, here, is a famed writer, highly respected, who has come to dig into our Lagrange Five Project garbage.”
“Not exactly,” Bruce protested mildly. “But that brings up a question. What do you do with your garbage in Island One?”
“We recycle it,” Annette said flatly. “And then eat it.”
The three men laughed. The girl made good company, obviously completely at ease with her superior and with all else in the L5 Project, no matter what their rank.
Bruce looked at Solomon Ryan and said, “I suppose the nitty-gritty starts with you, as head of the Lagrange Five Project.”
But the other smiled his charm at the freelancer and said, “To the contrary, I have no position with the Lagrange Five Project whatsoever.”
Bruce Carter was not the type to have his jaw drop. Had he been, his jaw would have creaked.
Ryan smiled deprecation. “Most people don’t know it, but I am not on the Lagrange Five Corporation payroll. I am on leave of absence from my position as a professor of physics at New Kingston University. I am here as an advisor. I am neither an employer nor an employee. I receive my expenses only.”
Bruce, flabbergasted, got out, “But…but…you’re the Father of the Lagrange Five Project, the colonization of space.”
Ryan smiled his charming smile, which was a little on the rueful side. “In actuality, the better term would be the Jewish mother of the Lagrange Five Project. Long since, the technological aspects of the endeavor have gotten beyond me. I actually have no time for research these days, Bruce. I’m kind of a figurehead. Something like royalty in England, you might say. I have to do with raising money, making speeches, public relations, writing, or…” he smiled ruefully again, “having thing
s ghostwritten for me, articles and pamphlets, even books, appearing before governmental committees in a dozen different countries, or at international meets. Oh, I simply have no time for actual research.”
“But, this stuff about you not having any connection with the L5 Project, that simply doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“It makes sense, all right,” the other told him, a touch of grimness in his voice for the first time. “You see, as it is, there is no one, not even the redoubtable Bruce Carter, who can point a finger at me and say that I am profiting by the L5 dream. In that respect, I am untouchable. I earn nothing whatsoever of the hundreds of billions being expended on space colonization. I live on my salary from my university, which is still paid me in spite of the fact that I am on leave. That makes sense, too. The Lagrange Five Project was boosted at New Kingston; basic research is still being conducted there by hundreds of scientists and engineers. In fact, New Kingston University is the heart and soul of the project but, of course, is a non-profit institution. In short, Bruce, my position here is an honorary one. I have a voice, but no vote, in the management of the Lagrange Five Project.”
“A damn loud voice,” Annette put in cynically.
Ryan grinned at her. “Admittedly.”
“Well,” Bruce said, “That’s a story in itself. And certainly an untold one, down on Earth. Just what do you do?”
Still smiling, Sol Ryan thought about that for a moment. “I suppose,” he said, “that we of New Kingston stand around with whips in our hands watching with eagle eyes that all goes well with the dream, seeing that there is no hanky-panky.”
Ron Rich said, “Is it too early for a drink? It occurs to me that Bruce just got off the Tsiolkowsky. He must have a week-long accumulated thirst and I’ve never even heard of a freelancer who didn’t have writer’s disease.”
“That’s the advantage of being here in space,” Annette said. “The sun is always over the yardarm.”
The PR man went over to the rather ornate bar and began bringing forth ice and glasses.
Bruce said, “I had gotten the impression that guzzle was all but unknown up here, due to the cost-of-shipment factor.”
Ryan frowned and explained. “You’d be surprised at the number of gifts sent up, usually to me or my immediate staff. The Corporation allots a certain amount of room and weight for packages, charging fantastically, of course, to keep such non-essentials down. But cost means nothing to some. On the same passenger freighter you arrived on, came a case of vintage champagne from the French. We could hardly turn it down and insult some of our staunchest political backers.”
“Heaven forbid,” Annette said. “Especially since it’s Pol Roger ’91.”
Ryan was saying, “And on the freighter before yours came over from Earth orbit, a Scottish distiller sent us four cases of prehistoric whiskey. And on the same spaceship arrived ten kilos of caviar. It’s embarrassing, in a way. Obviously, there isn’t enough to go around. Even four cases of Scotch wouldn’t be enough to supply each space colonist with a single sip.”
Ron wound it up for his chief very briskly. “So we keep it all here in the hotel. Rank has its privileges. So what’ll it be, folks?”
Ryan said, “At this time of day, let’s have some grappa.”
Bruce looked at him in horror. “Grappa! You mean that Italian liquid H-bomb made from leftover grape skins?”
Ryan laughed. He said, “I have a strong belief that the best potables are still those that are home-produced rather than commercially made. The best guzzle to come out of Ireland is poteen, when it’s made by an expert. The best whiskey in America is moonshine that’s been properly aged up in the mountains of Tennessee by a devotee. The best applejack is made in illicit stills in the Catskill Mountains of New York. And, in my belief, the best brandy in the world is not French cognac but properly distilled grappa from the hills of Sicily. This grappa is at least forty years old and is never seen in a bottle meant to be sold in a liquor store.”
“And why the Father of the Lagrange Five Project doesn’t have a nose as red as that of Rudolf the Reindeer’s is a mystery,” Annette said.
“Oh, come now, my dear,” Sol Ryan said, taking the glass of water-clear spirits that Ron passed him. “I don’t drink anything thick enough to eat.”
Bruce laughed at that. Actually, he was surprised at the degree of camaraderie that seemed to exist in the highest ranks of the L5 Project personnel. He took his own glass and sniffed at it. It smelled like grappa, all right, forty years old or nay.
Ron held his up in toast. “To the rapid completion of Island One,” he said.
“And the beginning of Island Two,” Bruce added.
The three space colonists knocked theirs back, stiff-wristed, evidently old hands at taking stone-age grappa down. Bruce sipped his and was amazed to find it as smooth and delicious as Sol Ryan had claimed.
The Lagrange Five leader had raised his eyebrows. “So, Bruce, from your toast it would seem that you, too, have the space colonization dream.”
Bruce said in a voice of self-deprecation, “I have had since I was a boy. You people seem to have jumped to the wrong conclusions about my purpose in wanting to come up here.”
“I’ll be damned,” Ron said, going around with the bottle and refilling the glasses. “Here I was trying to put you on the payroll, and your services are available for free.”
“That’s not exactly how I’d put it,” Bruce told him, accepting more of the Italian brandy. “However, it’s not my purpose to throw monkey wrenches in the machinery. It’s my belief that man’s fated to go into space. Who am I to attempt to buck the tide?”
“Cheers,” Annette said, holding up her glass. “A new recruit. It’s a damn shame that he probably doesn’t know how to buck a rivet gun.”
Ryan said, after laughing, “We ought to go easy on this stuff, in view of the party tonight.” He turned his eyes to Bruce. “We’re having a shindig here in the hotel tonight in honor of His Highness. You’re invited, of course. It’ll give you a chance to meet a selection of our top people.”
“Wizard,” Bruce said.
“You can be my date,” Annette told him. “I just love fearless journalists. We can rake a little muck together.”
Chapter Nine
“If the space colonies are sold to the American public as a way of escaping the juggernaut of apocalypse, of escaping the internal contradictions of our industrial civilization, and of not having to face those contradictions but simply to extend, extend, extend always to a new American frontier, then I think we will overextend ourselves to a point of deserved collapse. I think the space colonists excite the Faustian imagination of the managers and technocrats, for it offers them a way of continuing their existence without going through the pain of a transformation of consciousness.”
—William I. Thompson,
author of At the Edge of History.
*
Only minutes after entering Solomon Ryan’s party in honor of Prince Abou ben Abel with Annette Casey, Bruce Carter came to the conclusion that a cocktail party at Lagrange Five differed not at all from a cocktail party Earthside. In his time, he had once attended one in the White House, hosted by President Paul Corcoran. In his time, he had attended one in Chad, hosted by His Imperial Majesty, Aflu Aflu. In his time, he had attended one in the Kremlin, hosted by Number One. There was precious little difference.
There were perhaps fifty or sixty present, two-thirds of them men. Of the women, most were on the youthful side and the average degree of pulchritude was surprising. Their median age must have been twenty years younger than that of the men. Then it came to the freelancer. The men present were top-echelon L5 Project scientists and engineers; the women, largely office workers. What was it Ron Rich had said? Rank had its privileges. Bruce had no idea who it was in the Lagrange Five Corporation’s organization who was in charge of feminine personnel, but that worthy had a sophisticated taste when it came to exotic young women. With three or four exceptions,
any of them could have been more expected at some Hollywood bash than at a staid get-together of space scientists and engineers. The exceptions, he decided, were probably high-ranking women scientists. The suspicion came to him that the usual applied here. Given a community with women in the great minority, those that were available gravitated to the influential. When champagne and caviar were available to the few, why put up with dehydrated eggs?
“Women’s lib hasn’t gotten as far as all that,” he said to Annette, testing out his theory as they headed for the bar.
She looked at him from the side of her eyes and it occurred to Bruce Carter that she was probably not only the most beautiful woman present, but the most expensively gowned. Her jet-black hair was done up in short curls, meant to have hands ruffled through them, as though distractedly, without effect on the hairdo. She looked absolutely and literally edible.
“How’s that, Comrade?” she said.
“I’ll bet the twenty most beautiful women in Island One are in this room.”
She looked about. “Could be.”
“Why aren’t any of them out in the colonist beer joints, or clubs, or whatever the colonists have, making out with big, strong, handsome construction workers?”
“Because they haven’t got any extra holes in their heads,” she said, taking a glass of champagne from one of the bartenders. “They don’t confuse muscles with power. Have you ever drunk jungle juice?”
“Jungle juice?” He took a glass of the bubbly wine as well.
“They make it from potato peels…and stuff.”
Bruce looked around at the assemblage. Almost everyone, save the bartenders and waiters, were in evening dress. Those that served were in the dark green coveralls of Security. Bruce himself had been loaned formal attire by Carl Gatena. He spotted Carl across the room chatting with a gorgeous blonde. Then he remembered her. Ruthie, the receptionist at Ryan’s offices.
He said to Annette, “You mean the colonists get nothing to drink but home brew made out of leftovers?” “On special occasions—Christmas, for instance—they are issued rations of 190 proof alcohol, which they usually mix with concentrated fruit extracts. They say that the lemon flavor is quite good.”
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