by Peter Damon
Rolle nodded, his eyes focused beyond the room and those within it. “What about moving into space?” he asked sagely, and watched everyone’s eyes turn towards him. “What about lifting a large enough container into a low earth orbit and making that our home?” he suggested.
For several moments the room was completely still and silent. Six highly intelligent individuals stared at each other, most with their mouths hanging open, eyes and faces expressing incredulity that, as seconds passed, morphed to thoughtful consideration, and then growing excitement.
“What about food? Water? Waste?”
“Electricity, air?”
“It would need to be more than just us six.”
“More women for a start!” That coming from Thomas.
“Forget me. I’m afraid of heights!”
“What of our families?”
“Can it be done? What exactly is the limit to this stuff?” Cheryl asked.
The twins shrugged in unison before both leaning onto the table. “Mathematically, weight and size are a ratio of surface area to be coated, the density of the material we use, and the electrical current being put through it, so in theory there is no limit.”
“Haven’t you two come up with a name for this stuff yet?” Professor Rolle asked.
“Well, I don’t see anyone saying no to the idea,” Michael pointed out. “You’ve all presented problems that need to be overcome, but not one of you has shaken your head to say it can’t be done,” he told them.
“Are we serious about this?” Allan asked.
“I am,” Professor Rolle told them. “Forget everything you know about living in space. Forget about the limitations and inconveniences; they are all there out of necessity, a necessity driven by the amount of energy that has to be expended to lift every kilo into orbit, and then sustain it there.
“With this new and tested technology, we can put a much sturdier living facility into a much higher orbit. We can provide gravity, we can provide power, more importantly; we can provide a cheap and effective transport system between earth and our new space-station.”
“That would segregate us totally, wouldn’t it,” David pointed out.
“Absolutely,” Professor Rolle agreed. “It would give you the time and space to develop this substance to its fullest, and allow earth to prepare itself for it. You never know, you might actually come up with a name for it,” he chuckled.
“Would people come with us?” Thomas asked. “I mean, we’re going to need more that just us 6 to get us into space.”
“We’ll start a list of the skills we need and the possible recruits within Cambridge. Is it a taken that those around the table will want to go?” Michael asked.
“Are you joking?” Allan asked. “I’ll be there, given the chance.”
“I want in,” Cheryl agreed. “This has got to be the most challenging enterprise ever considered! It will change the world!”
“And the financing?” Allan asked.
“We stop doing the little university projects, and we concentrate on the large commercial jobs. We can charge a quarter of what the main providers charge and still make millions on each lift,” Rolle proposed.
“But it needs to be very carefully scheduled. Putting university projects into space doesn’t really upset anyone. But start interfering with the main revenue of multi-nationals and governments, and that will bring them down on us like a hammer on an anvil.”
“Yes,” Rolle agreed. “From now on, we focus on getting us off earth and safely into space. To do that, we need to lift seven or eight big commercial satellites to generate the capital to obtain our own ship.”
There was silence around the table. “Are we going to do this?” he asked.
One by one, those around the table nodded.
“What do we do in the meantime? I mean, if the authorities know about us, won’t we be at risk, while we’re still on earth?” Thomas asked.
“Rolle and I will deal with that,” Michael told him. “Realistically, it’s the main space launch powers that we need to be most cautious of. We can discount Europe – by its nature it won’t be able to respond quickly enough to pose a threat to us. That just leaves the USA, Russia, and of course China, whose recent long run of failures might make them the most needy of the three. However, there are a few diversionary tactics we can use,” he explained with a lopsided grin.
“We best start listing the problems then,” Rolle suggested.
Michael sighed. He still didn’t like the solution; he just wished he could think of a better one. He watched his father-in-law open a small notepad he’d brought with him. There would need to be a list, and the last thing they wanted was for that list to be in electronic format.
“We’ve got a lot to do, and not a lot of time to do it in.”
“Yes,” Rolle agreed, sombre and reflective. He opened his diary and glanced at the calendar on the front leaf. “Let’s see; a month to recruit our additional team and prepare a plan of deception for the authorities. Yes, that ties in well with the academic year.”
April 1st
The Cambridge Chronicle was one of those rare local newspapers that had done well following the advent of the free newspaper and the tablet. Far from moving to an electronic format alone, as had many of the others, the newspaper not only continued with a paper format in addition to their web presence, but sold it daily too. Yes, half the paper was advertising, but the rest was very necessary local news; things the population, and in particular the students, wanted or needed to know. Such things as what real ales were being sold and where, what flats and rooms had just become available, what bands and comedians were playing, and where, and a long list of Personals and Classified that allowed readers to find just about anything and everything.
Their offices were on East Road, not far from the shops, the universities and the police station. Here, on the third floor, the six journalists would meet inside a large but grubby room politely called the Press Room, and Gary Probin, the editor, would schedule such work that he knew of.
Michael was rarely in the office unless he needed a desk, a telephone, or Gary’s approval for expenses that he knew a phone call alone wouldn’t swing, which tended to be most of his claims. As work on the Rolle project (as it was beginning to be called) proceeded, it became harder and harder for Michael to pretend nothing was happening. Work on the Cambridge Chronicle just wasn’t that demanding.
Robert Fuller, a young man just into his twenties, considered himself to be a colleague of Michael’s. After all, weren’t they both journalists at the same newspaper? The editor had gone to great lengths to ensure there was no seniority within his small task force; if a job needed to be covered, he wanted to be able to call on any of them to cover it. However, in practice there were clearly levels of seniority, with those with more experience, like Michael, far more able to cover complex issues than the likes of Robert, fresh out of school.
In truth, Robert didn’t particularly like covering complicated stories involving the police, the local authority or their planning committees. Unlike the older journalists at the paper, he had a life outside the office, and he found a synergy between his private life and the public’s requirement for information on what good ales were in town, and whether it was worth seeing the latest Daniel Craig film.
Unfortunately, not everyone understood how Robert worked. They didn’t realise that his work was predominately from 6 or 7 in the evening through to midnight, sometimes even as late as 2 or 3 in the morning if he met a student and she invited him back to her room so he would see at firsthand what student living conditions were like.
Nonetheless, like all journalists, he had a dream, a dream of coming across one big story, a story so large that his copy would be used nationally, even internationally. People from Sydney to Los Angeles would read what he had written, and the big papers would clamour for him to join them. As far as Robert could see, that was the only possible opportunity he would have to leave home and branch out on his
own.
So, by the nature of his approach to the job, Robert was at his desk more often than not, and able to see Michael drop in occasionally to talk rapidly and quietly on the phone before going out again.
Robert noted how Michael appeared to subconsciously walk with greater enthusiasm, to concentrate more, and then suddenly smile before hurrying away to do something. He also noticed the small A5 pad that he’d begun to carry with him too, and how he often referred to its pages before making calls on the desk phone, and talking in hushed tones before leaving the office urgently. There were never enough hours in the day, it would seem.
It wasn’t difficult to tell that he was onto a story, something big but still being worked on.
Robert mulled over the changes in the older man from his own desk just a few metres away and wondered what he could have found.
Robert’s dreams returned with a vengeance. He could see himself in this very room being applauded by the others. Barely twenty years old and with just 2 years experience at the Chronicle, the others would clap him on the back and praise his skills. The Editor would acknowledge his ability and take him aside to beg him not to leave, not to go to London, but to continue at the Chronicle on five times his current salary.
The dream fragmented. It was Michael’s story. Once again, Michael.
And why Michael, he wondered bitterly. The man had already been a London based journalist, and look what he’d done with it; thrown it away on booze. Robert shook his head in despair. Michael had already had his chance. By rights, anything he found should really be Robert’s.
He watched Michael talk animatedly on the phone, his attention on the conversation as he threw his pad into the bottom drawer and hurriedly closed it, failing to notice that the drawer had rebounded outwards slightly, causing the locking mechanism to fail when the key was turned at the top edge of the pedestal. Then Michael was hurrying out, glancing at his watch before the swing door closed on him leaving Robert on his own in the grandly named Press Room.
His heart in his mouth, Robert looked hurriedly about him before he rose to move stealthily towards Michael’s desk. His future could lie there, just waiting for him to unravel the notes he thought, his eyes drawn to the partially closed desk drawer.
He bent and opened the drawer, his breath held as he saw the note book lying there. Then it was in his hands and he was hurrying from the office, anxious to get it home where, safe in his bedroom, he could begin to read the notes and create a story from what he had found.
April 5th
Professor Rolle waved absently towards the last departing students as he made his way back to his small office in the Cavendish Observatory. His mind was elsewhere, considering some of the points raised by his last student meeting. So he was a little surprised when he stepped into his office to find a man waiting for him.
The short, oriental man stood as he entered, a face devoid of expression as he looked back at the professor.
“Hello. Can I help you?” the professor asked. He put his books down and reached for the door, closing it behind him.
“Professor Rolle? You contacted the Embassy some weeks ago,” the visitor told him, passing him a business card with both hands.
The professor read it while nodding. The card was for Xu Dain, Junior Cultural Attaché at the Chinese Embassy in London.
“We meant no disrespect by taking so long to respond, but your message came as a surprise. We were not sure how to proceed,” Dain explained, a wayward lock of black hair dropping to half cover one dark eye. A quick toss of the head put it back in place across his forehead.
“Yes, I see,” Rolle nodded. “But you’re interested now, are you?” he asked.
“Quite possibly. Can you tell me again what it is you wish to negotiate, so there can be no misunderstanding between us?” Dain asked.
Rolle glanced towards the door to make sure it was firmly closed and nodded. “I have access to a chemical that can simplify and reduce the cost of launching objects into space. I am willing to obtain some of this chemical for you, in exchange for payment.”
“This chemical, you will have it in sufficient quantities for us to test?” he was asked.
“250 ml, provided in a sealed flask suitable for transport. However, the chemical is not a Bio-Hazard and can be transported easily in almost any normal container.”
“I see,” Xu Dain nodded. “What payment is required for such a sample?”
The professor licked his lips. “One million US Dollars, two hundred and fifty thousand to be paid in advance into an offshore account, the rest payable when the container is passed over to you.”
The Chinese man stopped to consider, and shook his head. “You plan to sell this to others too?”
“There are other people who will pay this sum, certainly,” Rolle agreed.
“So we will offer you four million US Dollars, five hundred thousand in advance, on condition of exclusivity. You will sell to no one else,” Dain offered.
+++++++++++++++++
Cheryl Hall hung a spare business suit on the rear handle of the Series 5 BMW she had just bought, and placed her case of samples, laptop and a holdall of other clothing into the boot. She was about to become a salesperson, and she had nothing in the car, or in her belongings, to link her to space flight, satellites or launching facilities.
She settled into the driving seat and waited for the sat-nav to find its location before she told it to take her to Hobbs Cross on the junction of the M11 and M25 motorways, where the new Cross-Channel car terminus was situated.
She made a last check, making sure her passport and purse were in her bag, and then turned on the radio to spend a few moments finding a radio station.
She was going to be in Europe for most of the time now, finding those companies that might be induced to move away from the established satellite launch providers in return for a massive discount on the cost and the opportunity to have their satellite lifted months earlier. She would need to be constantly on the move and conversations with the rest of the team would need to be minimised. They would rely on her judgement, and she would need to get it right, not only choosing the right companies to do business with, but ensuring they delivered their satellites on time. Unlike other launch providers, her team didn’t have somewhere to store or prepare the payloads; it would need to be done in car parks and lay-bys.
A suitable radio station found, Cheryl took a deep breath, and pulled away from the curb.
April 10th
“I see you made the second page of the Chronicle today,” Claire Rolle told her husband as he came into the kitchen for breakfast that morning.
“Ah, the dizzy heights of celebrity,” he joked, kissing his wife gently on the cheek before he sat down to his breakfast and opened the paper to read the lengthy article.
“Any of it true?” his wife idly asked as she put a plate of poached egg on toast in front of him. “I mean, it’s a bit late for an April Fools story,” she said smilingly.
“Depending on when the fool first saw the story,” Herbert murmured before beginning to read the piece.
Many years of reading student papers had given the professor the ability to read details quickly, but he slowed to read with more care as the story suggested he and Professor Lark, also from Cavendish Laboratory, had found a new means of lifting items into space. The story suggested a clandestine project was afoot to create a second laboratory in orbit, one large enough to support as many as fifty research staff.
Herbert snorted in mirth and shook his head as he read details that were totally impossible and wildly inaccurate. The story did not so much fall short of the truth, as lead people from the truth. In that, Michael’s careful work had done what it was meant to do. The rumour was now out in the public domain, but anyone taking it seriously would quickly find that the details held no substance.
The phone rang. It was a distraught Professor Lark wishing to know if Rolle had anything to do with the absurd article in the paper. Herbert was glad
to tell him that he had had nothing to do with it.
“That’s a shame,” Rolle heard his wife say. “Sometimes I think you’re already a couple of hundred miles away.”
The phone rang again, delaying any further conversation on that topic. It was Dr Cannon also querying where such an absurdity could have come from.
April 11th
Sir Arthur Coleman, the head of British Intelligence, was a striking man, both slender and tall. His hair, eyebrows and short goatee beard were turning to silver, and whether seated or standing, he held himself with military precision; his back straight, his shoulder blades together, his head erect.
His office was near the top of the building, with a large oval window that dominated the outside wall and that provided a spectacular view over the Thames. The office was designed and furnished in the Art Nouveau style; simple and yet artistic, the furniture curved and fluid, wood, glass and bronze coming together with a simplicity that elicited both admiration and relaxation from those who visited it.
Of course, British Intelligence didn’t exist; not as a Government department. The Government departments that could be construed as intelligence gathering were several; the Joint Intelligence Committee, the Secret Intelligence Service, Scotland Yard’s Counter Terrorism Command group, to name but three. However, there was a need for an overall and very small body that correlated activity and information; that ensured the right type of project, with the right type of individuals, was brought to bear upon any particular problem. The days of segregation were over.
So, despite it not existing, British Intelligence was alive and well under the control of one Sir Arthur Coleman.
Stanley Charway was the converse of Sir Arthur Coleman, for while Sir Arthur was very erect in his posture, Stan seemed permanently bent; his shoulders rolled, his head bent forward, sparse strands of hair combed forward to mask an ever receding hairline.
