Moon Dreams

by M.A. Harris

The Usual ‘Issues’

  Paul stood in the shadow of the reddish sandstone cliff and watched the Stack in the test stand, or more accurately he was listening. The turbo pumps they had installed were disconcertingly noisy, and under their high-pitched tone was a growl that seemed to be the audible signature of a Stack producing power. This was one of two test rigs they had put together to start examining long-term performance issues. To ensure that it could not break free for a short but potentially disastrous flight they had turned it upside down, so it was trying to push the Earth out of its orbit.

  The stands were sandbagged squares, the low side oriented so that the cameras and techs could monitor them; the monitoring ‘bunker’ was another sandbagged square, backed up against the curve of cliff wall that almost closed this side valley canyon off from the main hollow. In the bunker were two folding tables holding all the various monitoring equipment. When the techs were sitting down they were clear of any shrapnel a failing Stack might hurl, Paul was leaning against the warm wall of burlap wrapped sand, his jaw on his hands as he watched and listened.

  It had been an exhausting two weeks since he had given his allegiance to a man he did not know and did not wholly trust, because they shared a dream. Oddly, though that niggling worry popped up it didn’t have any power to make him doubt what he was doing. This was something that was going to change the world, change it like no other inventions ever had, and Paul had to be in at the beginning.

  A gust of wind made the tent roof above Paul snap and made the similar temporary cover over the Stack ripple. He sighed, this was all temporary while Cliff had a crew working in a slightly larger side canyon, building test revetments for up to twenty Stacks at a time. That number Cliff and Paul had put together one night over coffee and a pizza after they realized how many units would be needed for the Luna Haven construction campaign. In Paul’s opinion it would be a miracle if they did half as well as their already critically thin plan required.

  It was nearly a miracle that Cliff was still leading the project, he had tried to quit when he found out about the offer Richard Aristide had extended to Paul. Not that he had wanted to quit the project, he had simply said he’d be happy running the spacesuit engineering group, apparently what he had been doing before Cooper turned up to make his life miserable. It had taken Paul the better part of a day to convince the stubborn buckeye to stay on as the program manager with Paul taking the lead on the Stacks and the Moonships, areas where Cliff had apparently felt completely out of his depth anyway.

  “Paul, six’s turbo pump’s surging again.” The senior tech said quietly, Paul nodded, now it had been pointed out he could hear the faint quaver. The pumps in both units had done this before; it didn’t seem to do any harm. But there was always the possibility of something going catastrophically wrong, which was why they had moved power testing outside.

  Security was obviously not as tight out here, but in the technical people’s opinions it was a bit moot since someone had to be both interested, and at least marginally informed, to know what they were testing and how it was going. But that hadn’t cut much ice with the head of security. Fortunately when Cliff, Paul and Cooper had ganged up on him he had backed down, after they threw him some bones for his pride to chew on.

  It had been one of the few times recently when Cooper spoke directly to Paul. The old physicist was still angry at Paul’s defection. Paul could understand Cooper’s anger, though he knew Cooper was wrong; the Stack was an epoch making invention, but trying to perfect it now was a mistake. Much better to make a big splash and get it out in the public eye, once the technology was public thousands of brilliant brains would be turned on it, given where they were today, and where Paul was sure they could take it in the next few months, he could hardly imagine what would happen when the rest of the world took it up.

  The quaver in the Stacks whine was quite audible now. Paul pushed back from the sandbagged wall, “how bad is it now?”

  The tech shrugged, “it’s as bad as it’s gotten, but I think it’ll turn the corner and settle down soon.”

  Paul nodded, and then he caught sight of Cliff, driving one of the ZEVs up the path from the main building. He and Paul had agreed to meet here to go over the program plans they had been gradually perfecting, with many others inputs, over the last week. They hadn’t started to formalize the plans until they had a clearer idea of where they were technically on various parts of the project.

  There were an amazing number of sub elements to the plan. The Stacks, and the Moonships were only key elements, there were many other things that had to come together and work for the project to work; spacesuits, construction equipment, living supplies of air, food and water for the habitat as well as the structure.

  Since it wasn’t his area Paul had been studiously ignoring the issues to do with the actual building and populating of Luna Haven, but he had begun to worry about it, until he had met the man who would be responsible for building mankind’s first city among the stars. Conti Smithers was a grizzled old Texan of generally few, if often profane, words, and who exuded calm competence. An hour with the construction boss had left Paul feeling much better, even after he found out that Conti was still spending most of his time trying to bulldog another program to conclusion, somewhere in the Pacific.

  But even after that eye opening meeting Paul still didn’t have a good idea about how they were going to build Luna Haven, though he now knew it had a lot to do with prefabricated sections that the Moonships would haul up from Earth.

  Cliff was walking towards the bunker when the younger technician yelped, “Hey, that can’t be goo...” the words were blasted by “CRUMP, scrEEEE SHWAK.”

  A small part of Paul’s mind knew that his duck and roll were unnecessary. Whatever had passed by at head height, close enough for its wake to push his head aside, had passed clear. But gibbering monkey instincts had their way and Paul found himself hugging the dusty wood floor, eye to eye with the two techs.

  “What the blazes was that?” Cliff’s voice was a strangled yelp.

  Even under the circumstance Paul couldn’t help grinning, it was the first time he’d heard Cliff come even close to swearing. The two techs viewed his grin with wide-eyed respect, mistaking its source. With an internal shrug he levered himself up, “Well I guess the exciting bit’s over, now let’s find out what went wrong, shall we?”

  -o-

  Two days later Paul watched as a forklift carefully maneuvered a Stack into place in the repaired test stand. It was essentially the same as the one that had had failed though they had corrected the point of failure and added several safeguards. The Stack that had blown had developed a crack in a flange upstream of the turbo pump that flowed the hydrogen past the Stack. The vibration as the turbo pump went through a harmonic frequency mode had failed a weld in the pump’s inlet flange. When it failed the bellows had pulled clear, letting in a huge gulp of oxygen, something had sparked and the compressed mixture of hydrogen and oxygen had blown the pump housing into fragments, one of which had narrowly missed Paul’s head before embedding itself in the sandstone behind the monitoring station.

  They had been running the system at above atmospheric pressure, a much higher pressure than the designers had intended. Hydrogen embrittlement had destroyed a weld never tested in the conditions they had subjected it to; the pump’s manufacturer couldn’t be blamed for a failure when the unit was used outside its design parameters.

  Cliff and Paul had spent a lot of time debating what to do about it now they knew that the systems were inherently unsafe. The production design Paul and ‘his’ team of designers were working on would use different stainless steel alloys but that was at least eight weeks off. Paul had to get more information about long-term performance now, not later. In the end he had had all the other welds in the system probed with ultrasound and added hydrogen sniffers in more locations, connected to automatic shutdown switches. Cliff had had the sandba
g walls built up higher and added more firefighting equipment. Paul was fairly sure they wouldn’t get any more explosive failures but once bitten twice shy was a practical engineer’s proverb.

  The Stack settled into place and Charley Spitz, the chief mechanic, slipped the hold down pins in place and snapped the retainers home. Charley waved to Paul as he hopped onto the forklift’s running board, it whined backwards, did a smart pirouette and rattled off down the access track. Paul noted Cliff coming the other way in one of the ubiquitous ZEV’s.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Cliff, responding to the frown on Paul’s face.

  “Oh, just wondering where Cindy and Raoul were, I thought they were bringing up the monitor wiring harness and a few other bits and pieces. Guess they got hung up.” Paul shrugged, trying to dispel his irrational irritation.

  “Paul, it’s five o’clock on Saturday afternoon, I sent them home. May God forgive me I asked them to come and work tomorrow afternoon but they need a break. And so do you Paul.”

  “Ah...Saturday? Oh lord, so it is…” Paul shook his head, took in and blew out a deep breath.

  Cliff shook his head at Paul, “You haven’t been out of the hollow since you moved into the bungalow up on the rim. I think you need to take a break. Betsy’s Upstairs is open, why don’t you go have a good dinner and stop over at the Tech. They have a monthly Community Saturday Evening, and it happens to be this evening. Usually there are a couple of movies in the gym and a dance in the student union, and some card and chess games in the library.”

  “Sounds interesting, guess there’s not a lot for people to do around here?” Paul’s voice was a bit ironic though it didn’t sound bad, about his speed actually.

  “Too many bars, an off brand coffee shop that’s gone through three owners, as well as the fast food places on the west side of town and a second run movie house with two screens and a manager who’s too drunk to open up one day in three. There are two pretty decent restaurants though they aren’t obvious to visitors, so no, there’s not a whole lot. Not what city folks from Indy and Columbus are used to,” a quick flash of teeth through the red beard. “Enough for quiet old folk but the younger set need a bit more, the Tech’s president’s a good sort. She and the mayor have been doing a good job of making sure there’s something going on most weekends, and giving folks some places to get together and talk, other than at the bars and church.”

  Cliff’s suggestion was well meant so Paul resisted turning him down flat, but somehow he felt like he was letting someone down by even imagining taking the evening off, though he knew that was nuts. The protest that came out was logical enough, “I don’t have a car Cliff. I guess I need to do something about that, maybe get an old clunker next week. That way I can head down next time the Tech has one of these open houses.”

  The flicker of an almost rueful grin split Cliff’s beard, “You can use one of the company cars Paul, you rate one and I should have done the paper work a couple of weeks ago, I did it this afternoon.” He handed over what looked like a credit card, “It’s your pass and it also has your lock code, as long as you’re carrying it the car you’re assigned will start when you turn the start switch installed where the key usually fits.”

  There was little to say except ‘thank you.’

  -o-

  It was getting dark when the starkly austere sedan Cliff had assigned him nosed into the center of Primus Junction. The parking slots along the boardwalk in town were mostly full, Paul was lucky enough to find one near the diner. He was a bit surprised to see that the diner appeared to be closed, he wondered if Cliff had gotten it wrong. Walking towards the dark glass he saw that the door next to the one he’d gone through had a discreetly illuminated sign, Betsy’s Upstairs Diner, Tuesday through Saturday Evenings, 5:00 to Whenever.

  Behind the door was a staircase with the steps lit by ankle level lamps, so it was safely lit while remaining distinctively dim. At the top of the stairs were a little vestibule and an elegantly tall woman waiting with a faint smile. Paul did a bit of a double take as he realized that she was the woman who had served him toast and coffee on his first morning in Primus Junction.

  She must have recognized the little start of recognition because the faint curve of her lips blossomed into a smile, “Hello Mr. Richards.” At Paul’s second start the smile broadened, “Cliff called and made sure I knew you were coming, you never can tell when we’re going to have a group turn up, and it doesn’t take much to overcrowd the Upstairs.”

  “Uh, ah thanks, I guess you’re OK tonight?”

  A wrinkle of the nose, “Good house, but Ted’s not complainin’ too much.”

  At the top of the stairs Paul looked into the dining room and could see that it was indeed both quite small and more than half full. It was probably smaller than the Diner downstairs but the ceiling was very high and the elegant furniture and artwork, rich carpeting and paneling of the room were totally unexpected.

  “It was a semi-secret men’s card club in the Junction’s boisterous youth.” The waitress/manager explained. Paul nodded, not knowing quite what to say, she was a bit overpowering at this range, elegance edging to beauty with a classy but distinctly western voice.

  The faint smile was back, “I’m Betsy by the way, Betsy Preston, the owner and manager, if you have a question or a problem please let me know,” she brought her arm out to guide him, “your table’s this way Mr. Richards.”

  Ten minutes later Paul leaned back as the blond waitress made her way towards the kitchen with his order, having left him with his requested mug of Guinness. Paul pulled his attention from the view of the slender young woman’s back to contemplate the black fluid with its tan cap. As the stress of the past few weeks drained away, at least temporarily, he felt lost and lonely. He wished intensely that he could engage the pretty waitress, Kathy, with the friendly familiarity that came so easily to some men.

  The music that wove around the susurration of voices in the dining room was as surprising as the décor and the well dressed clientele, classical guitar and piano pieces he didn’t recognize. As he sipped the Guinness the surge of loneliness receded in its turn, Paul drifted with no real thoughts, living in the moment, drinking in the warm, gregarious elegance of his surroundings.

  The dinner salad was crisp and fresh, the chicken and steak combo with peppery fried onion and mushroom topping was cooked just right, the baked potato’s shell crisp and the interior fluffy. Paul realized as he leaned back from the table that, though the servings were relatively small, it had been more than enough - and as good as he’d had in many years.

  “You liked it?” a gravelly voice enquired.

  Paul looked up; his interrogator was a short, broad man, with a weather-beaten face dominated by a beaky nose and green eyes. The reason for the question was indicated by the white chef’s jacket over blue jeans and riding boots.

  “Excellent, almost divine, you’re Ted?”

  “Ted Smitherson, glad you liked it, been makin’ that plate for a lot of years now, most folks like it.” The chef pulled the chair on the opposite side of the table out and sat down. “Charlene, the desert cook’s busy now, haven’t had any new main course orders for a while. Good night but a bit short, like most Tech Community evenings.”

  “You seem to do pretty well here; I guess people get to know you’re here after a while?”

  “Yep, though this was a lot quieter and less dressy place ‘afore Aristide’s started the Canal project then moved their tech center here.”

  “I wondered if you were here before the canal. Guess you were?”

  “In a small way, this dining room was only used as a function room in those days, what’s now the kitchen was the billiards room. We got really tired carryin’ stuff up the stairs when we had a big do up here.”

  “You don’t look like you’ve been a chef all your life Ted?”

  This got a rough chuckle, “Nah, started as a cowboy down in Texas, flew chop
pers in the Army for a number of years.” Paul’s raised eyebrows collected another chuckle, but no direct explanation, “Always liked cookin’, even out on the range and in the Army, got famous for my grills, when I left the Army I decided to try my hand as a cook, in my own place, so I started my own diner. Betsy used to be my waitress.” A grin and shrug of the shoulders, “Turns out I ain’t a great manager and just scraped by, while she’s as good with the books as she is with people. She married Mike and moved here; few years later she called and asked if I’d like to cook for her. I sold my old place for about what I paid for it and dusted on over here. Never regretted it.”

  Paul felt a little overwhelmed by this flow of information but somehow it seemed natural enough, “Well, I think Betsy and her customers did pretty well out of the deal.”

  A flash of a grin deepened the deep etched laugh lines, “Thanks….” They chatted and Paul found himself telling Ted his story. He’d long ago developed a couple of good anecdotes about the boom and bust of BladePower. He got several good chuckles out of Ted with the story about the meeting when the VC’s tried to sell BladePower to a group of investors from China for about twice what Paul, and the potential investors, had thought it worth. It was good to be able to look back at that miserable period of his life and laugh.

  During the talk most of the guests had finished and left, and Ted had gotten them both a cup of coffee. The old cook leaned back in the chair, eyeing Paul over the rim of the coffee. Paul was pretty sure that Ted was winding himself to ask something, Paul hoped it was something easy, the older man frowned and asked, “You’re over at Hollow working with Cliff and other folks, came here from DC? Seems like you’d be runnin’ your own show, I’d say you did pretty well considerin’?”

  Paul grimaced, shrugged, “Why didn’t you stick with flying choppers?”

  “The flight surgeon didn’t pass my eyesight,” an answering grimace, “Not so easy to play tricks these days as the movies would have you think. The old biddy was sharp as a tack and just as hard. Didn’t want to hang around and not be able to fly.”

  The obvious pain made Paul feel bad about his dodging shot, “Oh,” He really didn’t want to talk about it but, “I didn’t like the fact that I let a lot of people down, let their dreams get punctured. They say it wasn’t my fault, and maybe it wasn’t, but I feel like it was. I’ve pretty much worked for myself ever since, kind of high brow temping, that’s my arrangement here, though it looks like it may be a bit longer term than most.”

  “Temping huh? Guess that’s one way of looking at the whole canal project. Seems like it’s been goin’ on forever, especially for people who moved here after it started, but it’s getting on to the end and folks are beginning to worry about what comes after?”

  Paul’s stomach sank a little, “I thought the new valley city was what comes next? You’re on the main road between it and Salt Lake City.”

  A shrug, “In a decade maybe, maybe…most of the farmland is owned by a consortia of industrial farming companies, considering what’s there now they can probably farm the whole Valley with a few hundred people and a lot of agribots. The city’s a bit of a fantasy in my opinion, a town maybe, with another one up on the mountain slopes below the White Hats, there’s a lot of potential for outdoor sports, especially winter sports, but it’ll take a few years for it to grow. In the meantime, the tech center in the Hollow and the canal workers have become a big part of this town’s life blood, if they both go when the Canal project winds up like rumor has it, then this town is going to fold up shop.”

  There wasn’t a lot that Paul could say about this, he had no inside knowledge of either the town’s prospects or Aristide plans for the Hollow beyond the Moonship project.

  Ted waved a hand at Paul and shook his, “Hell, sorry Paul, you don’t know, probably couldn’t tell me if you did. Bit of an achin’ tooth these days, I’d hate to have to move but a lot of Betsy’s business is from the Canal and the Hollow one way or another.” He nodded his head at the dining room, “At the least this part of the place would go back to being a special function room.”

  “Seems like a nice town, and it’s been here for a long time going by the architecture, the Tech’s original building looks like it might have been built early last century. What’s kept it going this long, the highway through town’s not a major one?”

  “Major enough to help, along with the train tracks, good farm lands to the south and east, as well as the mountains. A couple of ski lodges and a big national forest have helped, the Tech helps and there’s a technical high school as well. But all of that’s been really juiced by Aristide, with that gone folks wonder what’s goin’ to happen.”

  Paul shrugged, “Seems like a nice place, I love the view from the lip of the bluff the hollow’s in, spectacular. I think you’ll be fine.”

  “Yeah, well….” The conversation turned back to food and general topics for a few minutes then Ted excused himself. Paul waved the waitress over and asked for his bill.

  The girl vanished into the vestibule and a few seconds later Betsy strolled over, “Here you go Mr. Richards, hope you enjoyed dinner?”

  Paul couldn’t help smiling, “It was wonderful, and I hope I didn’t keep Ted talking too long, he’s a great guy. And a great cook.”

  This got a sweet smile, “Why thank you Mr. Richards, Ted likes to come out and mingle. People like to chat,” a wrinkle of the nose, “wonder if he doesn’t give away too many recipes, but most folks seem to come back so it does no harm.”

  “Even if he told me every step of the recipe I’d never get the results he does in the kitchen, like in everything, some people just have ‘it’ whatever ‘it’ is - and Ted does with cooking.” With a glance Paul pulled out his wallet and some cash.

  Betsy smilingly took the money and returned the change, most of which he left for the waitress.

  A few minutes later Paul found himself standing in the glow of the streetlights, realizing that he should have brought a jacket. It was only a short walk to the Tech so he left the car to stretch his legs. As he went he thought about Ted’s comments, he still hadn’t really come to any conclusions as he walked into the Tech’s old main hall.