by Ben Bova
Jake realized that the NASA administrator was fully aware of his program.
Jackson pointed out, “In the meantime, your contracts people are trying to take over any efforts to send Space Tours or other private firms to the Moon.”
Farthington nodded unhappily. “Sometimes those bean counters go off on their own. They figure the agency’s upper management shouldn’t get in their way.”
Jackson let a small smile creep across his lips. “NASA’s never been a single, unified organization. It’s a collection of fiefdoms, each guarding its own territory.”
“Tell me about it,” Farthington replied. “Sometimes I feel like King John facing his barons as they wave the Magna Carta in his face.”
Unhappily, Jake asked, “So what can we do about it?”
Farthington focused his gunmetal eyes on Jake. “I’ve been asked to appear at Senator Sebastian’s hearing tomorrow morning.”
“And?” Jackson prompted.
“I imagine that Sebastian and his friends expect me to blow some hot air about how NASA has led the nation’s space program since 1958 and should continue to do so.”
Jake held his breath.
“Bloviating Billy,” Farthington said, with some bitterness. “Sometimes they pronounce my name without the h.”
Jake glanced at Jackson, who was leaning toward the NASA administrator, eager to hear his next words.
“You realize I’ll be stepping into a minefield here,” Farthington said. “My own people expect me to say that NASA should be in charge of any program to return to the Moon. Hell, half of them will want me to say that we should forget about the Moon and aim for Mars.” With a bitter little smile, “A Mars effort will keep most of ’em employed until they reach retirement age.”
“So what are you going to say?” Jake prodded.
Farthington’s smile brightened. “I’m going to bloviate, just as they expect. But my hot air will blow your way, Dr. Ross. Underneath my torrent of words, I’ll say that NASA is ready and willing to support your plan for returning to the Moon. But it’ll take ’em a week or more to figure out that that’s what I’ve said.”
Jackson broke into a laugh. “Don’t make any enemies,” he said.
“Don’t let them know you’re their enemy,” Farthington countered, “until it’s too late for them to do anything about it.”
Subcommittee Hearing
Jake felt nervous. The subcommittee’s hearing room was hardly half-filled and the bank of seats up front for the senators themselves was still empty, five minutes before the hearing was scheduled to begin. Not even Senator Sebastian had shown up yet. And Frank Tomlinson was nowhere in sight.
He’s got to be here, Jake told himself. He’s the main witness. Turning to survey the rococo-decorated chamber, Jake saw Rollie Jackson sitting a couple of rows behind him. With William Farthington at his side. Isaiah Knowles was striding down the central aisle; he smiled tightly at Jake as he slid into a pew a few rows back.
Oh god, Jake thought as he recognized Derek Vermeer entering the chamber. Mr. Mars. Perfectly dressed in a dark three-piece suit with his MARS NOW lapel pin.
The chamber itself was smallish, with a double bank of seats in the front of the room for the subcommittee members, an open space before them with a desk where witnesses would testify, and benches for the audience. Long windows along one wall, with a table for news media reporters and photographers nearly empty. One TV camera, from C-Span, with a pair of operators standing idly beside it.
Tami came in through the doors from the corridor outside and hurried to the news media table. She smiled at Jake as she took a chair there.
At two minutes before ten, Senator Sebastian came through the door behind the double row of senators’ seats and took his place front and center, followed by several aides and other subcommittee members and their aides. Jake thought they all looked bored: none of them was talking with any of the others.
They’ve probably hashed out their strategy for this hearing. Now they’re going through the motions of listening to the witnesses.
Senator Tomlinson slipped onto the bench beside Jake precisely at ten o’clock.
“Good morning, Jake,” said the senator, with a bright grin.
Jake had to swallow twice before he could squeak out, “Morning.”
Sebastian was wearing a white summer-weight suit that looked to Jake a trifle large on him, as if he had lost several pounds after he’d bought it. He put on a smile and tapped the desktop with his knuckles.
“This hearing will come to order.”
The few murmured conversations in the chamber went silent. Sebastian nodded. “We are here to examine a proposal for the future of this nation’s efforts in space,” he said, “a proposal sponsored by our esteemed colleague, Senator B. Franklin Tomlinson, of Montana. Senator Tomlinson, please take the witness chair.”
Tomlinson got up and strode to the witness desk, his hands empty, no notes at all. Hope he remembers it all, Jake thought. A lone news photographer scurried from the reporters’ table to snap his picture.
As he sat at the desk, Tomlinson said, “I want to thank you, Senator Sebastian, and all the members of the subcommittee, for extending me the courtesy of listening to what I consider to be a bold, innovative plan for developing the resources of space for the benefit of the people of America and the entire Earth.”
And for the next half hour Jake listened as Tomlinson ran flawlessly through the space plan. The senators had already read the preliminary plan that Jake had sent them, or at least their aides had. Now they were free to ask questions, make suggestions.
It wasn’t until Tomlinson was almost finished with his presentation that the senator from New Jersey, a thin, waspish-looking woman with shoulder-length ash-blonde hair, raised her hand.
“Senator Ianetta?” Sebastian asked. “You have a question?”
“Yes,” she replied in a low, smoky voice. Turning to Tomlinson, she asked, “Senator, do you expect the United States government to take all the risk of this very expensive program?”
Tomlinson smiled his warmest at her. “I expect the federal government to guarantee the loans that will finance the program, yes. The loans themselves will be raised in the private financial market. Not a penny of taxpayer money will be involved.”
“But if the program fails, if it collapses, the US Treasury will have to pay back the investors.”
Still smiling, Tomlinson replied, “The program will not fail.”
“How can you be certain of that?”
“Because I have faith in the capabilities of our private space industry. Several companies are already operating in space. All they need is the capital backing to open up the space frontier and return us to the Moon.”
“With loans that the federal government guarantees.”
“Exactly,” said Tomlinson. “It’s been done before, and it’s worked. What was the Homestead Act, if not a federal guarantee to the people who settled the western frontier? We’re not asking for a handout, we’re offering a new frontier that can create whole new industries and produce millions of new jobs.”
“On the Moon?”
“Right here on Earth, mostly. Right in your own state of New Jersey.”
Ianetta pressed, “But you expect to send people to work on the Moon.”
“Indeed I do,” Tomlinson replied. “I expect us to return to the Moon, and this time we’ll stay. This time we’ll start developing our new frontier.”
Dead silence in the hearing room. Jake wanted to applaud, but he froze in place.
“Thank you, Senator Tomlinson,” said Sebastian. “Now we’ll hear from Colonel Isaiah Knowles, of the Space Futures Foundation.”
And so it went, through the long morning, one witness after another giving his opinion on the space plan. Knowles in favor, Vermeer complaining it would interfere with his hopes for reaching Mars. Not one woman among the witnesses, Jake realized. Maybe we should have recruited a female astronaut.
Then Sebastian called out, “Our final witness this morning is General William T. Farthington, chief administrator of the National Air and Space Agency—NASA.”
Wearing a light gray jacket and darker slacks, Farthington walked leisurely to the witness desk and sat down. He smiled pleasantly at the senators arrayed before him.
“Senator Sebastian, it’s a distinct pleasure to appear before your distinguished subcommittee. This plan proposed by Senator Tomlinson is of vital interest to NASA. It involves nothing less than the future direction of our efforts in space.”
For more than a quarter of an hour Farthington spoke glowingly of NASA’s existing programs, and of the agency’s hopes and plans for the future. Jake thought it was like reading a slick, colorful real estate salesman’s brochure. The senators seemed to be nodding off as Bloviating Billy droned on.
At last Farthington summarized, “In short, gentlemen—and lady”—nodding at Ianetta—“NASA has the tools and the trained experts to help implement programs that can return us to the Moon, or reach farther and put human explorers on Mars. NASA stands ready to help open the space frontier.”
A few people sitting behind Jake actually broke into applause. Did Farthington bring his own flunkies to the meeting? Jake wondered.
Senator Sebastian smiled beatifically down on the NASA administrator and said, “Thank you, General Farthington. Are there any questions from my distinguished colleagues?”
Bloviating Billy
Jake thought that the panel of senators sitting before him looked more dazed by Farthington’s rambling testimony than anything else. The man didn’t say anything, really; he just summarized what the agency had been doing for the past few years and mentioned plans—hopes, really—for future operations. More robotic missions to Mars and Jupiter’s moons; continued flights to and from the International Space Station; he even mentioned aerodynamics research that NASA was conducting for new hypersonic airliners.
“I’d like to ask General Farthington,” said the senator from Texas, who looked more like an investment broker than a cowboy, “specifically what he thinks of Senator Tomlinson’s plan to return to the Moon.”
With a genial smile, Farthington replied, “Technically, it appears to be feasible. We’ll have to study it in more detail, of course.”
“Of course,” said the Texan, frowning slightly. “And this idea of having the federal government guarantee private loans to finance the program?”
Farthington hesitated. Then, “Senator, my background is in logistics, not high finance. It will be up to you to decide if that’s a viable way of funding Senator Tomlinson’s proposed program.”
“How risky do you think the program is?”
“Technologically? I think it can be doable, but of course we’ll need to study the fine details.” Smiling again, Farthington added, “The devil is in the details, as you know.”
Senator Ianetta interrupted with, “Would you fly to the Moon on a private spacecraft, sir?”
Farthington’s moon-shaped face contracted into a thoughtful frown. At last he replied, “I suppose that, sooner or later, private spacecraft will be the major means of reaching the Moon.”
“But what about Mars?” asked the Texan, throwing a glare in Ianetta’s direction.
“NASA has devoted considerable resources to studying human missions to Mars. As you know, we have developed the Orion spacecraft and the SLS booster that can carry a team of five astronauts to the Red Planet.”
Sebastian seized the floor. “But the program under discussion today doesn’t include any missions to Mars.”
“Not at present,” Farthington answered. “But when the time is right, I’m sure that we’ll be able to reach Mars.”
“And when will the time be right?” the Texan asked.
“When the White House and Congress decide it is,” Farthington replied. “NASA stands ready. To paraphrase Winston Churchill’s famous words, give us the go-ahead and we will finish the job.”
Oh great, Jake thought. I can see the headlines: NASA ready to go to Mars.
* * *
Jake rode back to the Hart building with Tomlinson in the senator’s limousine.
“It could have been worse,” Tomlinson said, his face grim. “Farthington could have shot us down.”
“Maybe he did,” Jake said gloomily. “On to Mars,” he muttered.
“He didn’t quite say that,” the senator countered.
But, as Jake feared, Mars was the headline of the blogs, the afternoon newspapers, the TV news shows that evening. The space plan was hardly mentioned. That evening Derek Vermeer was interviewed by CNN:
“Mars is the logical objective of our space efforts,” he said, looking straight into the camera, stern and knowledgeable with his goatee and MARS NOW button.
Sitting at his kitchen table with Tami, Jake felt like throwing up.
Tami hiked her eyebrows and pointed out, “It’s not over, Jake. The subcommittee will study your plan and make its report in a few weeks.”
“They don’t like the idea of having the government guarantee the loans,” Jake muttered. “That’s the stumbling block.”
“Then you should be pushing the idea,” said Tami. “Get some media coverage for it. After all, getting back to the Moon without taking a penny out of the taxpayers’ pockets is newsworthy.”
“Maybe.”
“Of course it is! Have Frank do a speech about it. Get some of the Wall Street reporters involved.”
Jake mused, “Going back to the Moon on private funding. That’s what the plan is all about.”
The microwave pinged. Tami got up from the table and pulled out Jake’s chicken parmigiana. She placed it on the table in front of him, then slid her own beef teriyaki dinner into the microwave oven.
Jake picked up his fork and pushed the food around his plate.
“Don’t wait for me,” Tami urged. “It’ll get cold.”
But Jake replied, “Rollie Jackson told me I shouldn’t make enemies. Make alliances with those who oppose you.”
“Good advice,” said Tami. “If you can do it.”
Jake looked into her dark eyes. “Suppose we set up part of our base on the Moon as a training center for Mars explorers.”
Tami blinked at him. “Oh?”
“Learn how to work and survive on Mars by training on the Moon. Low gravity, airless, high radiation environment. Test the equipment and techniques you’ll need on Mars.”
“Couldn’t you do that on the space station?”
Jake shook his head. “The ISS is too confined. And it’s in zero-gee. The Moon’s surface is better.”
The microwave pinged again. They both ignored it.
“Use the Moon to train Mars explorers,” Tami mused.
“To study and perfect the tools and techniques they’ll need on Mars,” said Jake.
“Make the Mars people your allies, instead of your enemies!”
“It could work,” Jake said, brightening. “It just might work!”
His smartphone broke into “Stars and Stripes Forever.”
Jake fumbled the phone out of his pants pocket. “Hello.”
“Jake, it’s Harry Quinton.”
Uh-oh, Jake thought, his momentary excitement vanishing like a popped balloon. More trouble.
Before he could ask, Quinton said, “Just got a call from my Washington rep. He says his pigeon in NASA’s contracts department told him to forget about their previous call to tack on Moon missions to our existing contract. Says they got the word straight from the head honcho, Farthington himself. Leave our existing contract alone.”
“They’re not going to try to muscle in on lunar missions?” Jake asked, incredulous.
“Apparently not. Nice going, pal.”
Shakily, Jake replied, “Glad to hear it, Harry. Glad to hear it.”
“On to the Moon, baby!” Quinton’s voice brimmed with enthusiasm.
“On to the Moon,” Jake repeated. Then he added, “What do you think about pu
tting a training facility on the Moon?”
“Training facility? Training for what?”
“For manned Mars missions. Test out the equipment and procedures they’ll need in the Moon’s low-gee, high-radiation environment.”
For several moments Quinton did not reply. At last he said, “You ought to talk with Nick Piazza about that. He’s more interested in going to Mars than I am.”
“He is?”
“Yep. Nick’s a real daredevil underneath that cool exterior of his.”
Jake thanked Quinton and made a mental note to contact Piazza in the morning.
Campaign Headquarters
The place looked like an abandoned supermarket. Which is exactly what it was.
“Welcome to the Tomlinson campaign headquarters,” said Patrick Lovett, spreading his arms wide. Instead of his usual carefully tailored suit, the campaign manager was in baggy jeans and a T-shirt that proclaimed PEWAUKEE LAKE, PLAYGROUND OF WISCONSIN. Jake saw a claw hammer hanging from his belt.
The interior space was cavernous. The former supermarket had been totally gutted, nothing but a few desks huddled in one corner. The ceiling was lined with bright fluorescent lamps, the floor cleared of display cases, although Jake saw electrical outlets lining the walls and what looked suspiciously like a wilted cabbage leaf flattened in a corner.
As he ushered Jake and Tami into the empty, echoing space, Lovett said, “In a week you won’t recognize this place; it’ll look like the command center of a national political campaign.” Pointing here and there, he went on, “Desks, computers, communications consoles—the works.”
“In a week?” Tami asked.
Waggling a hand in the air, Lovett amended, “Ten days, at the most. And it’s only a ten-minute taxi ride from the Hill!”
Jake asked, “How much is this going to cost us?”
“Donated,” Lovett replied, with a satisfied grin. “The head of the supermarket chain is one of our supporters.”
“Shipping green vegetables to the Moon?” Tami asked, with a giggle.
“Could be,” said Lovett. “Could be.”
* * *
True to his word, Lovett transformed the onetime supermarket into a working campaign headquarters: desks, computers, communications consoles, volunteers busily chattering into phones, aides scurrying along the long rows of buzzing workstations. And looming above them all, a gigantic poster of the candidate himself, striding energetically, smiling, youthful, confident.
