by Allen Steele
Zimm had jumped at the chance; if everything worked out, he’d come out of the twelve months with a doctorate and enough real-world experience to land him a nice professional job at one of the better radio observatories. But everything didn’t work out. Ten months after he joined the Wheel’s crew, AXAF had gone on the fritz before he could complete his studies of the Cygnus X-l pulsar. The satellite’s starboard solar array had been nailed by a micrometeorite, causing the telescope to lose half of its internal electrical power.
NASA didn’t have the necessary funds to purchase a replacement wing from Martin Marietta, and wouldn’t have until half a dozen congressional subcommittees decided whether the cost of maintaining AXAF was worth sacrificing some senator’s favorite pork barrel. The last he had heard, the satellite was competing against a proposal to build a railroad museum in Scranton, Pennsylvania.
So here he was: stranded aboard a broken-down space station, his doctoral thesis in limbo, his future prospects uncertain. At this point, it was beginning to look as if his next job would be teaching Astronomy 101 at a junior college in Duluth …
“Now, back in ’77, things were different,” Poppa was saying. Tell me about it, Zimm thought. “I was running MR-13 … Mars Retriever One-Three, and she’s still my ship … and we had gone out to lunar orbit to pick up Ares when it came back, and ol’ Neil … that’s Neil Armstrong, y’know … Neil radioed in to say that he had lost power to the port engines and he was …”
Poppa would soon get to the part in which he would claim that if it weren’t for him, Ares One would have shot past the rendezvous point and its crew would have been lost in the cold, fathomless reaches of outer space. It was the same bullshit story Curtis had heard a dozen times over.
If it wasn’t for on-line pals like Mr. Grid, he would have gone nuts by now.
OK, so let me get this straight, he typed as he tried to focus on keeping up his end of the conversation. The Duke came to the Castle, but he wasn’t interested in sex. Right?
He had begun using Le Matrix shortly after he arrived on the Wheel, first as a way of communicating with the rest of the astronomy community, but later as simple escapism. He had first met Mr. Grid on the Lost In Space fan board, and since then she had become one of his closest friends on the net. She had some kinky interests, to be sure, but at least she didn’t flame like many of the teenagers he had encountered on Le Matrix, nor did she sign off at the mention of an event horizon.
When it turned out that her on-line boyfriend was supposed to be visiting the Wheel—indeed, that Thor200 was Paul Dooley, a crew member on the upcoming Conestoga mission to Tranquillity Base—he promised to meet Dooley when he got off the ferry from the Cape and pass a sly word that she was waiting for him this evening on Le Matrix. His private impression of Dooley was that he was as weird as a three-dollar bill. However, judging by the way she was talking tonight, he wasn’t entirely certain Mr. Grid hadn’t gone off the deep end herself.
A long pause. The system was running slow, but that was to be expected. His downlink was being bounced across any number of Iridium Comsats, so it sometimes took more than a few seconds for their messages to be transceived between the Wheel’s rec room and her small apartment in Phoenix, Arizona.
Finally, the reply came: It wasn’t just THAT, damn it! He didn’t ID himself as the Duke either! He signed on as Thor and he thought the Duke was someone else!
He shrugged. So he forgot he was supposed to be the Duke & signed on as Thor200 instead. Where’s the beef?
“So why do they call you Poppa?” Rhodes asked.
“’Cause I’m the poppa dog, Miss Rhodes. Like a retriever … Fido’s Pride, that’s my ship, the MR-13. You’ll see it tomorrow when Dr. Z runs you out to Conestoga. It’s parked next to the garage. Gimme another beer, Billy.”
That’s not all, Mr. Grid replied. I don’t think he knew I was a woman. When I started to come on to him, he didn’t know what to do at first, then he started to tell ME what I was supposed to be feeling!:(
Curtis picked up the Coke he’d been drinking, found it empty, and tossed it in the waste can. He looked a little shaken when I picked him up at the ferry, Gaby. Shuttle flights can be rough sometimes.
“In fact,” Poppa continued, “we’re going to be flying the ol’ boat out tomorrow, right behind you guys …”
“Really?”
“That’s the fact. We have to pick up Conestoga’s departure tanks after y’all drop them. They usually let them go, but after Conestoga comes home, the Smithsonian wants to dismantle the whole thing and bring it back to Earth for storage at the Air and Space Museum annex in Maryland. So they want the whole ship, drop-tanks ’n all.”
That’s not all, Mr. Grid replied. He drank the nectar without realizing that it was blood. When I told him that it had come from a young boy I had captured and placed in the dungeon, he thought I was talking about having SEX with him!
Curtis blinked as he read that. Well, OK, that’s a little weird, all right … but he could have still been shaken up!
“The entire ship?” Rhodes asked. “That’s going to cost a lot to bring back to Earth.”
“Sure it is. Kind of a bitch, ain’t it … ’scuse my language. We’ve got enough money to dismantle the last moonship and make it a tourist attraction, but we can’t pay to keep it operational. I mean, what’s this country coming to?”
I got suspicious, so I told him the Dane was calling for me from upstairs and I had to leave … and he reacted as if the Dane was still alive!! BUT HE MURDERED THE DANE 6 MOS. AGO! :0
Dr. Z nervously rubbed his hand across his shaved scalp. There was a lot about cybersex that he still didn’t understand. How two adults could achieve erotic satisfaction from indulging in on-line fantasies was still beyond his comprehension; for him, it was like trying to masturbate with a copy of PC World. Nonetheless, his friendship with Mr. Grid was as intimate as if they were brother and sister sharing stories about a real-world rendezvous with a secret lover; because of that, he knew a lot about the romance between Thor200 and Mr. Grid … or rather, under different screen-names, DukePaul and LadyG.
At least once a week the Duke and LadyG had rendezvoused in a private room on Le Matrix, where they gradually collaborated in a romantic liaison that combined elements of various gothic horror novels they had both read. A bit of Bram Stoker, a dash of Anne Rice, some cable-TV reruns of Dark Shadows … soon they had created a scenario in which Lady Gabrielle, a vampire of noble blood, had seduced Duke Paul and, after biting his neck and transforming him into her undead consort, had coerced him into murdering the Dane, her husband. Now they got together on Le Matrix to grope each other in the Castle. They traditionally began each session by drinking the blood of fictional teenage boys LadyG had lured from the nearby village … the “nectar,” as she preferred to call it.
All in all, it was safe sex, albeit taken to a cybernetic extreme. Neither Mr. Grid/LadyG nor Thor200/DukePaul had ever met face to face, which was probably just as well. If Paul Dooley was nobody’s dashing duke by real-world standards, it was only because Curtis had recently laid eyes upon him. Dooley likewise was innocent of the fact that his secret lover of the net was one Gabrielle Blumfield, a former computer engineer in Phoenix, Arizona, whose multiple sclerosis had confined her to a wheelchair. She used the Mr. Grid pseudonym as a way of hiding the fact that she was female; only Curtis was aware that she was sick … and neither Thor200 nor Dr. Z had the slightest idea what she looked like in real life.
So what are you getting at? he asked. Are you trying to say that someone else was posing as the Duke tonight?
The reply came as quickly as cyberspace would permit. No. I think someone on the Wheel is posing as Paul Dooley.
He frowned as he read that. True, she knew who Thor200/DukePaul really was, even if Dooley didn’t know her true identity; Dooley had let her know about himself a few months ago, including many of the details of his upcoming mission to Tranquillity Base. However, Zimm had no idea what sort of
side-effects her medication might give her; he couldn’t discount drug-induced paranoia.
Do you realize how hard it would be for someone to pretend to be Paul Dooley? he typed. You can’t just waltz into KSC, claim to be someone else, and climb aboard the next rocket. Maybe someone managed to hack into Le Matrix and get DukePaul’s password.
Billy switched CDs, changing the music from the Cowboy Junkies to Midnight Oil, while Poppa Dog continued to tell tall tales about the old days aboard the Wheel.
I thought of that, Mr. Grid replied. I asked him if he was aboard the Wheel, and he said yes. Also, there was a LONG pause last night while we were talking, when he was still in Florida … and he was really short with me when he came back. ;/
That doesn’t mean anything, Zimm typed, although he was beginning to have his doubts.
Le Matrix’s double-key encryption system was virtually foolproof when it came to foiling the so-called cypherpunks who specialized in such activity, to the point that it was nearly impossible to gain access to another user’s password. Unless Dooley had unwisely blabbed his Le Matrix password to someone—which was unlikely, considering his own reputation among hackers—then the only way someone could have signed on as either Thor200 or DukePaul was for someone to …
No. That was too weird.
But was it? He recalled introducing himself to Dooley, when Constellation’s passengers had climbed aboard Harpers Ferry. Dooley had seemed confused, almost evasive, when he had mentioned Mr. Grid. And ever since his arrival aboard the Wheel, Dooley had holed up in his cabin in the VIP section.
There’s something fishy going on, Mr. Grid said. I don’t know how … but that’s NOT Paul Dooley.
Prove it, he typed.
A short pause, then: I’ll get back to you. Until then, KEEP AN EYE ON HIM!!
OK, OK, I will. Zimm grinned, then added, If you’re wrong, then you pay my bill next month!
Deal! BRB! Nite!!
A moment later, her logon disappeared from the top of the screen, leaving him alone in the private room where they had held their conversation.
Dr. Z signed off Le Matrix, then stood up and stretched his aching back. Turning around, he noticed for the first time that Berkley Rhodes had left the rec room. Apparently she had decided to call it a night. No wonder; tomorrow morning, she would be heading for the Moon.
“Have fun with your friends?” Poppa asked. He was cracking open another beer and settling into a frayed armchair next to Billy. Die Hard had ended, and they were watching the opening credits of some Claude von Damme kickboxer flick.
Zimm picked up the pool cue that lay on the table and slid the white ball into position. “Same as usual.”
From The Washington Post; January 12, 1981
Reagan Set to Launch New
Military Space Program
News Analysis
by Maureen McCoy
WASHINGTON—Only a week before his inauguration, part of President-elect Ronald Reagan’s transition team is already planning a new American space initiative. Although members of the group refuse to disclose its details at this time, insiders among Reagan’s so-called California kitchen cabinet say that the plans call for a revival of the long-dormant military space program.
Formally known as the Strategic Defense Working Group, its members include former NASA administrator James Fletcher, physicist Edward R. Teller, and former Air Force General Omar Bliss, who led the Blue Horizon project during World War II. The group is headed by William J. Casey, widely considered to be Reagan’s choice for Director of Central Intelligence.
Although the group will not propose reinstatement of the U.S. Space Force, which was phased out in the early 1970s during the Kennedy Administration, they will recommend that the White House pursue defense-related objectives as the nation’s first priority in space, with the U.S. Air Force being the lead agency instead of NASA. Possible suggestions include:
De-emphasis of basic scientific research, and shifting technological resources to space-based national defense, including development of a new generation of surveillance satellites;
Final authorization of a new “space shuttle” which will eventually replace NASA’s aging fleet of Atlas-C space ferries;
Downscaling operations at Tranquillity Base, and eventual curtailment of NASA lunar operations;
Opening the civilian space program to participation by American business, allowing U.S. private enterprise to compete on a “free market” basis with the burgeoning European space industry.
It is also possible that the Strategic Defense Working Group will recommend to the President-elect that the Air Force develop an orbital “space shield” of laser satellites, which would protect the United States against nuclear attack. Dr. Teller is known to be a leading advocate of this plan, and General Bliss made several public speeches urging the outgoing McGovern Administration to fund research in this area. Fletcher is regarded as an advocate of the space shuttle, an advanced spaceplane which was shelved during the McGovern Administration.
Teller and Bliss apparently have Governor Reagan’s ear. During the presidential campaign, Reagan made several references to the declining state of the American space program, which hinted at his interest in renewed military involvement. In his acceptance speech at the Republican National Convention last July, he spoke of NASA’s “liberal agenda” which placed “higher priority on studying moon rocks than on looking for ways to protect Americans.” Reagan also cited the $52 billion spent in the last decade on Project Ares, claiming that it was “money the Democrats invested in the Russian propaganda machine” which could have been better used for military space objectives.
Space was not a major topic in the 1980 campaign, compared to the economy and the Iran hostage crisis, yet it seems as if Reagan was able to play upon widespread disenchantment with NASA as a minor theme. President McGovern was never able to successfully answer Republican charges that the past three Democratic administrations turned NASA into a cash cow for special interests, although McGovern trimmed NASA’s budget by 15 percent during the past eight years.
The prospect of Reagan’s turning the ailing American space program into a defense program hasn’t been embraced by many people within NASA.
“This ‘space-shield’ business is pure sky-blue malarkey on Teller’s part,” says an unnamed senior NASA official. “Livermore labs has conducted some promising experiments in that area, but nothing that could result in a reliable strategic defense system within the next twenty years. Teller is selling Reagan a bill of goods his people can’t deliver.”
As for the space shuttle, the same source is dubious about the idea of using throwaway solid-rocket boosters. “We need a new generation of ferries, yes,” he says, “but using SRB’s for a manned spacecraft is a risky business. If we dive headlong into something like that, especially as a crash program, then we may pay for it down the road.”
Wendell Haynes, president of the American Institute of Astronautics, is also skeptical of a renewed military space program. “Under the current budget environment, the only way Reagan is going to be able to fund this effort is by cutting civilian space efforts to the bone,” he says. “If he does that, there goes interplanetary science, research into solar power satellites, lunar operations … the whole works. NASA will be emasculated, and Europe will continue to take the lead.”
Will American industry be able to take up the slack, as the working group believes it will? “I rather doubt it,” Haynes says. “More than likely, commercial users will just hitch a ride aboard German rockets rather than developing new domestic launch systems. In the long run, we’ll be handing the space industry to the Europeans.”
Transition press secretary Larry Speakes refused to comment on this issue….
TWELVE
2/17/95 • 0716 GMT
OKAY, KIDS, DR. Z said, hang on back there. I’m opening the hatch now.
Darkness clutched Harpers Ferry’s cargo bay for a few more seconds, then pure white light slic
ed across one bulkhead, gradually widening into a chasm as the hatch silently cranked open. The raw glare of the naked sun caused everyone to wince and hastily reach for the reflective gold visors on their helmets.
And there it was: the U.S.S. Conestoga, berthed inside its enormous orbital hangar. Spotlights along the hangar walls cast complex shadows from the skeletal framework across the dull-gray globes and cylinders of its fuel tanks, which separated the massive array of engines at the stern from the giant personnel sphere at the bow. Its landing gear and the outrigger antennas were still folded up against the tanks, lending the moonship the vague appearance of a humongous insect slumbering within a cocoon.
Whatever sleep this bug had enjoyed for the last three years, though, was now at an end. As Harpers Ferry glided into a parking orbit several hundred feet from the hangar, another taxi began to haul Conestoga out of the hangar at the end of a short, thick cable. The taxi was assisted by two astronauts in EVA bottlesuits which functioned as miniature one-man tugboats, their operators holding onto the moonship’s slender girders. A fuel tender, itself a modified taxi outfitted with rows of propellant cylinders, approached the large craft as it prepared to pump lox and hydrazine into the fuel tanks. Working together, the taxi and the bottlesuits gently coaxed the moonship from the hangar which had protected it against micrometeorites during its long dormancy, the pilots making sure that no part of its superstructure banged against the hangar walls.
It was the first time Parnell had laid eyes on Conestoga in two decades; despite the humid warmth of his hardsuit, he felt a chill run down his back. He had forgotten how bloody huge this machine really was. Simply saying that it was 160 feet long—taller than the Statue of Liberty, as the old USSF fact-sheets once proudly proclaimed—wasn’t sufficient, nor was the fact that it had taken almost two dozen flights of Atlas-C cargo ferries to loft its unassembled parts into space.
