V
“Monty—”
“Yeah, Chief?”
“Have you ever heard this song?” Harriman hummed. “The Moon belongs to everyone; the best things in life are free,”—then sang it, badly off key.
“Can’t say as I ever have.”
“It was before your time. I want it dug out again. I want it revived, plugged until Hell wouldn’t have it, and on everybody’s lips.”
“O.K.” Montgomery took out his memorandum pad. “When do you want it to reach its top?”
Harriman considered. “In, say, about three months. Then I want the first phrase picked up and used in advertising slogans.”
“A cinch.”
“How are things in Florida, Monty?”
“I thought we were going to have to buy the whole damned legislature until we got the rumor spread around that Los Angeles had contracted to have a City-Limits-of-Los-Angeles sign planted on the Moon for publicity pix. Then they came around.”
“Good.” Harriman pondered. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. How much do you think the Chamber of Commerce of Los Angeles would pay for such a picture?”
Montgomery made another note. “I’ll look into it.”
“I suppose you are about ready to crank up Texas, now that Florida is loaded?”
“Most any time now. We’re spreading a few snide rumors first.”
Headline from Dallas-Fort Worth Banner:
THE MOON BELONGS TO TEXAS!!!
“—and that’s all for tonight, kiddies. Don’t forget to send in those box tops, or reasonable facsimiles. Remember—first prize is a thousand-acre ranch on the Moon itself, free and clear; the second prize is a six-foot scale model of the actual Moon ship, and there are fifty, count them, fifty third prizes, each a saddle-trained Shetland pony. Your hundred-word composition, ‘Why I want to go to the Moon,’ will be judged for sincerity and originality, not on literary merit. Send those box tops to Uncle Taffy, Box 214, Juarez, Old Mexico.”
Harriman was shown into the office of the president of the Moka-Coka Company (“Only a Moke is truly a coke”—“Drink the Cola drink with the Lift”). He paused at the door, some twenty feet from the President’s desk, and quickly pinned a two-inch-wide button to his lapel.
Patterson Griggs looked up. “Well, this is really an honor, D.D. Do come in and—” The soft-drink executive stopped suddenly, his expression changed. “What are you doing wearing that?” he snapped. “Trying to annoy me?”
“That” was the two-inch disc; Harriman unpinned it and put it in his pocket. It was a celluloid advertisement pin, in plain yellow; printed on it in black, almost covering it, was a simple
, the trademark of Moka-Coka’s only serious rival.
“No,” answered Harriman, “though I don’t blame you for being irritated. I see half the schoolkids in the country wearing these silly buttons. But I came to give you a friendly tip, not to annoy you.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I paused at your door that pin on my lapel was just the size—to you, standing at your desk—as the full Moon looks when you are standing in your garden, looking up at it. You didn’t have any trouble reading what was on the pin, did you? I know you didn’t; you yelled at me before either one of us stirred.”
“What about it?”
“How would you feel—and what would the effect be on your sales—if there was a ‘six-plus’ written across the face of the Moon instead of just on a schoolkid’s sweater?”
Griggs thought about it, then said, “D.D., don’t make poor jokes. I’ve had a bad day.”
“I’m not joking. As you have probably heard around the Street, I’m behind this Moon trip venture. Between ourselves, Pat, it’s quite an expensive undertaking, even for me. A few days ago a man came to me—you’ll pardon me if I don’t mention names? You can figure it out. Anyhow, this man represented a client who wanted to buy the advertising concession for the Moon. He knew we weren’t sure of success; but he said his client would take the risk.
“At first I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about; he set me straight. Then I thought he was kidding. Then I was shocked. Look at this—” Harriman took out a large sheet of paper and spread it on Griggs’s desk. “You see the equipment is set up anywhere near the center of the Moon, as we see it. Eighteen pryrotechnics rockets shoot out in eighteen directions, like the spokes of a wheel, but to carefully calculated distances. They hit and the bombs they carry go off, spreading finely divided carbon black for calculated distances. There’s no air on the Moon, you know, Pat—a fine powder will throw just as easily as a javelin. Here’s your results.” He turned the paper over; on the back there was a picture of the Moon, printed lightly. Overlaying it, in black, heavy print was:
“So it is that outfit—those poisoners!”
“No, no, I didn’t say so! But it illustrates the point; six-plus is only two symbols; it can be spread large enough to be read on the face of the Moon.”
Griggs stared at the horrid advertisement. “I don’t believe it will work!”
“A reliable pyrotechnics firm has guaranteed that it will—provided I can deliver their equipment to the spot. After all, Pat, it doesn’t take much of a pyrotechnics rocket to go a long distance on the Moon. Why, you could throw a baseball a couple of miles yourself—low gravity, you know.”
“People would never stand for it. It’s sacrilege!”
Harriman looked sad. “I wish you were right. But they stand for skywriting—and video commercials.”
Griggs chewed his lip. “Well, I don’t see why you came to me with it,” he exploded. “You know damn well the name of my product won’t go on the face of the Moon. The letters would be too small to be read.”
Harriman nodded. “That’s exactly why I came to you. Pat, this isn’t just a business venture to me; it’s my heart and soul. It just made me sick to think of somebody actually wanting to use the face of the Moon for advertising. As you say, it’s sacrilege. But somehow, these jackals found out I was pressed for cash. They came to me when they knew I would have to listen. I put them off. I promised them an answer on Thursday. Then I went home and lay awake about it. After a while I thought of you.”
“Me?”
“You. You and your company. After all, you’ve got a good product and you need legitimate advertising for it. It occurred to me that there are more ways to use the Moon in advertising than by defacing it. Now just suppose that your company bought the same concession, but with the public-spirited promise of never letting it be used. Suppose you featured that fact in your ads? Suppose you ran pictures of a boy and girl, sitting out under the Moon, sharing a bottle of Moke? Suppose Moke was the only soft drink carried on the first trip to the Moon? But I don’t have to tell you how to do it.” He glanced at his watch finger. “I’ve got to run and I don’t want to rush you. If you want to do business just leave word at my office by noon tomorrow and I’ll have our man Montgomery get in touch with your advertising chief.”
The head of the big newspaper chain kept him waiting the minimum time reserved for tycoons and cabinet members. Again Harriman stopped at the threshold of a large office and fixed a disc to his lapel.
“Howdy, Delos,” the publisher said, “how’s the traffic in green cheese today?” He then caught sight of the button and frowned. “If that is a joke, it is in poor taste.”
Harriman pocketed the disc; it displayed not the , but the hammer-and-sickle.
“No,” he said, “it’s not a joke; it’s a nightmare. Colonel, you and I are among the few people in this country who realize that communism is still a menace.”
Sometime later they were talking as chummily as if the Colonel’s chain had not obstructed the Moon venture since its inception. The publisher waved a cigar at his desk. “How did you come by those plans? Steal them?”
“They were copied,” Harriman answered with narrow truth. “But they aren’t important. The important thing is to get there first; we can’t risk having an en
emy rocket base on the Moon. For years I’ve had a recurrent nightmare of waking up and seeing headlines that the Russians had landed on the Moon and declared the Lunar Soviet—say thirteen men and two female scientists—and had petitioned for entrance into the U.S.S.R.—and the petition had, of course, been graciously granted by the Supreme Soviet. I used to wake up and tremble. I don’t know that they would actually go through with painting a hammer and sickle on the face of the Moon, but it’s consistent with their psychology. Look at those enormous posters they are always hanging up.”
The publisher bit down hard on his cigar. “We’ll see what we can work out. Is there any way you can speed up your take-off?”
VI
“Mr. Harriman?”
“Yes?”
“That Mr. LeCroix is here again.”
“Tell him I can’t see him.”
“Yes, sir—uh, Mr. Harriman, he did not mention it the other day but he says he is a rocket pilot.”
“Send him around to Skyways. I don’t hire pilots.”
A man’s face crowded into the screen, displacing Harriman’s reception secretary. “Mr. Harriman—I’m Leslie LeCroix, relief pilot of the Charon.”
“I don’t care if you are the Angel Gab—Did you say Charon?”
“I said Charon. And I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Come in.”
Harriman greeted his visitor, offered him tobacco, then looked him over with interest. The Charon, shuttle rocket to the lost power satellite, had been the nearest thing to a spaceship the world had yet seen. Its pilot, lost in the same explosion that had destroyed the satellite and the Charon had been the first, in a way, of the coming breed of spacemen.
Harriman wondered how it had escaped his attention that the Charon had alternating pilots. He had known it, of course—but somehow he had forgotten to take the fact into account. He had written off the power satellite, its shuttle rocket and everything about it, ceased to think about them. He now looked at LeCroix with curiosity.
He saw a small, neat man with a thin, intelligent face, and the big, competent hands of a jockey. LeCroix returned his inspection without embarrassment. He seemed calm and utterly sure of himself.
“Well, Captain LeCroix?”
“You are building a Moon ship.”
“Who says so?”
“A Moon ship is being built. The boys all say you are behind it.”
“Yes?”
“I want to pilot it.”
“Why should you?”
“I’m the best man for it.”
Harriman paused to let out a cloud of tobacco smoke. “If you can prove that, the billet is yours.”
“It’s a deal.” LeCroix stood up. “I’ll leave my name and address outside.”
“Wait a minute. I said ‘if.’ Let’s talk. I’m going along on this trip myself; I want to know more about you before I trust my neck to you.”
They discussed Moon flight, interplanetary travel, rocketry, what they might find on the Moon. Gradually Harriman warmed up, as he found another spirit so like his own, so obsessed with the Wonderful Dream. Subconsciously he had already accepted LeCroix; the conversation began to assume that it would be a joint venture.
After a long time Harriman said, “This is fun, Les, but I’ve got to do a few chores yet today, or none of us will get to the Moon. You go on out to Peterson Field and get acquainted with Bob Coster—I’ll call him. If the pair of you can manage to get along, we’ll talk contract.” He scribbled a chit and handed it to LeCroix. “Give this to Miss Perkins as you go out and she’ll put you on the payroll.”
“That can wait.”
“Man’s got to eat.”
LeCroix accepted it but did not leave. “There’s one thing I don’t understand, Mr. Harriman.”
“Huh?
“Why are you planning on a chemically powered ship? Not that I object; I’ll herd her. But why do it the hard way? I know you had the City of Brisbane refitted for X-fuel—”
Harriman stared at him. “Are you off your nut, Les? You’re asking why pigs don’t have wings—there isn’t any X-fuel and there won’t be any more until we make some ourselves—on the Moon.”
“Who told you that?”
“What do you mean?”
“The way I heard it, the Atomic Energy Commission allocated X-fuel, under treaty, to several other countries—and some of them weren’t prepared to make use of it. But they got it just the same. What happened to it?”
“Oh, that! Sure, Les, several of the little outfits in Central America and South America were cut in for a slice of pie for political reasons, even though they had no way to eat it. A good thing, too—we bought it back and used it to ease the immediate power shortage.” Harriman frowned. “You’re right, though. I should have grabbed some of the stuff then.”
“Are you sure it’s all gone?”
“Why, of course, I’m—No, I’m not. I’ll look into it. G’bye, Les.”
His contacts were able to account for every pound of X-fuel in short order—save for Costa Rica’s allotment. That nation had declined to sell back its supply because its power plant, suitable for X-fuel, had been almost finished at the time of the disaster. Another inquiry disclosed that the power plant had never been finished.
Montgomery was even then in Managua; Nicaragua had had a change in administration and Montgomery was making certain that the special position of the local Moon corporation was protected. Harriman sent him a coded message to proceed to San José to locate X-fuel, buy it and ship it back—at any cost. He then went to see the chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission.
That official was apparently glad to see him and anxious to be affable. Harriman got around to explaining that he wanted a license to do experimental work in isotopes—X-fuel, to be precise.
“This should be brought up through the usual channels, Mr. Harriman.”
“It will be. This is a preliminary inquiry. I want to know your reactions.”
“After all, I am not the only commissioner . . . and we almost always follow the recommendations of our technical branch.”
“Don’t fence with me, Carl. You know dern well you control a working majority. Off the record, what do you say?”
“Well, D.D.—off the record—you can’t get any X-fuel, so why get a license?”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Mmmm . . . we weren’t required by law to follow every millicurie of X-fuel, since it isn’t classed as potentially suitable for mass weapons. Just the same, we knew what happened to it. There’s none available.”
Harriman kept quiet.
“In the second place, you can have an X-fuel license, if you wish—for any purpose but rocket fuel.”
“Why the restriction?”
“You are building a Moon ship, aren’t you?”
“Me?”
“Don’t you fence with me, D.D. It’s my business to know things. You can’t use X-fuel for rockets, even if you can find it—which you can’t.” The chairman went to a vault back of his desk and returned with a quarto volume, which he laid in front of Harriman. It was titled: Theoretical Investigation into the Stability of Several Radioisotopic Fuels—With Notes on the Charon-Power-Satellite Disaster. The cover had a serial number and was stamped: SECRET.
Harriman pushed it away. “I’ve got no business looking at that—and I wouldn’t understand it if I did.”
The chairman grinned. “Very well, I’ll tell you what’s in it. I’m deliberately tying your hands, D.D., by trusting you with a defense secret—”
“I won’t have it, I tell you!”
“Don’t try to power a spaceship with X-fuel, D.D. It’s a lovely fuel—but it may go off like a firecracker anywhere out in space. That report tells why.”
“Confound it, we ran the Charon for nearly three years!”
“You were lucky. It is the official—but utterly confidential—opinion of the government that the Charon set off the power satellite, rather than the satellite setting
off the Charon. We had thought it was the other way around at first, and of course it could have been, but there was the disturbing matter of the radar records. It seemed as if the ship had gone up a split second before the satellite. So we made an intensive theoretical investigation. X-fuel is too dangerous for rockets.”
“That’s ridiculous! For every pound burned in the Charon there were at least a hundred pounds used in power plants on the surface. How come they didn’t explode?”
“It’s a matter of shielding. A rocket necessarily uses less shielding than a stationary plant, but the worst feature is that it operates out in space. The disaster is presumed to have been triggered by primary cosmic radiation. If you like, I’ll call in one of the mathematical physicists to elucidate.”
Harriman shook his head. “You know I don’t speak the language.” He considered. “I suppose that’s all there is to it?”
“I’m afraid so. I’m really sorry.” Harriman got up to leave. “Uh, one more thing, D.D.—you weren’t thinking of approaching any of my subordinate colleagues, were you?”
“Of course not. Why should I?”
“I’m glad to hear it. You know, Mr. Harriman, some of our staff may not be the most brilliant scientists in the world—it’s very hard to keep a first-class scientist happy in the conditions of government service. But there is one thing I am sure of; all of them are utterly incorruptible. Knowing that, I would take it as a personal affront if anyone tried to influence one of my people—a very personal affront.”
“So?”
“Yes. By the way, I used to box light-heavyweight in college. I’ve kept it up.”
“Hmmm . . . well, I never went to college. But I play a fair game of poker.” Harriman suddenly grinned. “I won’t tamper with your boys, Carl. It would be too much like offering a bribe to a starving man. Well, so long.”
When Harriman got back to his office he called in one of his confidential clerks. “Take another coded message to Mr. Montgomery. Tell him to ship the stuff to Panama City, rather than to the States.” He started to dictate another message to Coster, intending to tell him to stop work on the Pioneer, whose skeleton was already reaching skyward on the Colorado prairie, and shift to the Santa Maria, formerly the City of Brisbane. He thought better of it. Take-off would have to be outside the United States; with the Atomic Energy Commission acting stuffy, it would not do to try to move the Santa Maria; it would give the show away.
Man Who Sold the Moon / Orphans of the Sky Page 22
