The Third Wave

by Alexis A. Gilliland

Illustration by Vincent Di Fate

CHAPTER 1

First Comes The Seed

The intercom came to life. “Mister de la Haye to see you, sir,” said the receptionist, as the secretary of the Navy walked in on the heels of the announcement with a young fellow in tow. Rear Admiral Fontaine, a tall lean man with dark circles under his eyes, stood up and came out from behind his desk to meet his boss half way.

“Always good to see you, chief,” he said. “How did the hearings go this morning?”

The secretary of the Navy shrugged. From his demeanor, he was not a happy camper. “It’s been one of those days, Henry. Ah went down to tell the committee that we need to deploy at least a squadron of nuclear warheads in lunar orbit to protect Earth from collision with comets and asteroids—or planetesimals as the staff wants to call ’em.”

Nuclear warheads in lunar orbit? Fontaine winced. “Uh, I hope that was vehicles in orbit, warheads on Earth, chief?”

“Oh, hell yes, that’s what I said to those people: We anticipate being in full compliance with the Geneva Convention, yes, indeed. For a supporting argument, I had some truly elegant graphics to show. Really neat stuff that actually went down 65,000,000 years ago, superimposed on today’s landscape.”

Fontaine nodded. His office had contracted out for them.

“Beautiful graphics, which ought to have been persuasive for the pitiful puny piddling program which those bean-counting scum-sucking liberal esso-bees have reduced us to, but no, the senator from Utah tells me that the latest survey of planetesimals crossing Earth’s orbit shows positively no collisions for the next 250 years.”

“Dilberg got the number wrong,” Fontaine told him. “That’s 2,500 years.”

De la Haye eased himself into one of the chairs. “You’re almost as much help as he was, Henry. So I says, yes, for the rocks, maybe, but what about the comets, what about them?”

“What about them comets, chief?”

“Dilberg’s staff had dug up some neat graphics of their own, of course. You spot one of those suckers coming in, you send out a fleet of little robots with little dinky solar sails, maybe two or three acres each is all, and two or three of them latch on to the comet and reflect sunlight to steer the poor darling out of harm’s way with jets of gas and whatever.”

That would be the Japanese version of the Yelton plan, thought Fontaine. Technically elegant, but I don’t think old Delay is in the mood to listen up on the subject. “The committee bought it?”

A slow nod. “We waltzed that one around a few times, but I could see those poor bastards going for the cheap. The Cis Lunar Missile Defense Protocol may not be totally down the tubes, but without nukes, no comet is going to take them seriously.”

“Too bad,” said Fontaine. Operation Clamdip had always been problematical, of course, but that was no skin off his nose. “What brings you here?”

“A helicopter,” de la Haye said, his soft southern accent thickening, “Mah boss, the secretary of defense, arranged foah me to ride back with him out of the goodness of his heart. That good and kindly man is doing the secretary of state a favor by finding a slot for this young fellah, heah He removed his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. “And he prevailed upon me by the force of sweet reason to see things his way.Admiral Fontaine, this is Doctor Turi John Ramos. Turi John, this is Rear Admiral Henry B. Fontaine.” The two shook hands with pro forma expressions of pleasure. “Ah expect you can find him a place in your shop with no trouble at all, at all; y’all were looking to fill a vacancy, right?”

We had a vacancy, at any rate, thought Fontaine resignedly. Well, cooperate with the inevitable. “A mission-connected slot, sir,” he replied, hoping to inspire feelings of guilt. “If I may ask, how come we’re being gifted with such a handsome and talented young man?”

De la Haye shrugged. “When Ah asked mah boss why, all he tole me was that ‘it was politically unseemly for a member of UNNDC to lobby for the repeal of the Geneva Convention.’ Now lissen, Ah’m running late, but why don’t the two of you set down and make yourselves acquainted? Ah’m sure things will work out jes’ fine once the boy gets settled in. They shook hands all around, and the secretary of the Navy left. Fontaine resumed his place behind the desk, and motioned for Turi John to seat himself.

“You want to tell me about it, Doctor Ramos?”

Turi John Ramos, a thirty-something set piece out of Gentleman ’s Quarterly, crossed his legs and smiled politely, showing beautiful white caps on his teeth. “I’d be delighted, sir. How much detail do you want?”

“There was a time when I commanded a nuclear submarine and ate details for breakfast,” the admiral shook his head. “But not now, not a half hour before lunch. Just give me an inkling so I have some idea of what ought to be done with you.”

“Yes sir,” replied Turi John. “My resume, when it works its way up to your desk, will tell you that I took a bachelor and master of fine arts from the Chicago Art Institute, but I’m not an artist, and a couple of law degrees from the University of Chicago, but I’m not a lawyer, either. The senator found me a place with the Institute for Nuclear Disarmament, where I was an intern for a couple of years, and a fellow for a couple more. Then I went over to the UNNDC, the UN’s Nuclear Disarmament Commission.”

The admiral brushed one hand over his white hair. Focus on what is essential, he reminded himself. “The senator?”

“My mother’s sister is married to Senator Metcalfe.”

The good old boy from Texas that heads up the Appropriations Committee, thought Fontaine resignedly. Well, I’ll be retiring in eleven months and nine days, and no way am I going to let this well-connected fop make me break a sweat. “So we may be doing the secretary of state a favor, more than likely. How did you get in trouble over at the UN?”

Turi John smiled and adjusted his Gucci silk cravat. “I wound up on the Plutonium Disposal Study Group. Nasty stuff, plutonium. Nobody wants it loose in the environment, and rightly so. Try to burn it up in power reactors, and it makes so much economic sense to breed more of the stuff that nobody is willing to even try it. When I was there, we couldn’t even get studies funded. The best, the cleanest method was to put the world’s inventory of plutonium in orbit and give it a few pushes so that it falls into the Sun.”

“I remember,” said the admiral. “Once the UN went public to get approval for the idea, old Jeremy Rifkin came tottering out of his nursing home to warn congress that the Sun might go nova, and the son of a bitch dropped dead in the middle of the damned hearing. After that, nobody could convince the American public to go with the idea, and if we wouldn’t go with it, neither would anyone else.”

“Exactly, sir. The whole issue is driven by irrational fear. On the other hand, with all the political instability around the world, it isn’t safe to leave the stuff sitting around, and people know that too. The question is, can rational fear triumph over irrational fear?”

Do I hear a well rehearsed opening gambit? “Any fear can paralyze action,” Fontaine replied mournfully, “if you need people to move, sweet reason will start them taking teeny tiny baby steps. Sweet reason will not persuade them to take a great, dramatic leap.”

“It isn’t safe to sit still on this issue,” saidTuri John, looking vexed as his argument slid away from where he had pointed it. “There are people coming to power who think you can use atomic weapons for political purposes.”

Some people are fools, thought the admiral, but it can’t be helped. “The rising generation seems to be a little more relaxed about nuclear weapons than we were,” he conceded. “They maybe don’t know as much about them, but they’ll learn.”

“Only a few charismatic and ignorant members of any generation want to use nukes, sir, but if the people are also ignorant, an, uh, excursion might happen inadvertently. Those hundreds of tons of plutonium in all the world’s inventories are a sword of Damocles, hanging over all our heads.” Turi John paused to pull his cuffs clear of his sleeve, displaying gold and jade cuff links in the process. “This is kind of a side issue, really. Nobody ever got in trouble for saying that nuclear weapons were too powerful to be practical.”

“So what did get you in trouble?”

“It was a woman, sir. MadelineTosca put me onto Freeman Dyson and Project Orion.”

Fontaine’s grey eyes blinked as his mind retrieved a long unused file. Ancient history from the dawn of the nuclear age, I do believe. “The nuclear powered spaceship?”

“Yes sir. Eventually, Dyson took the idea as far as it would go. He had a 100,000 ton spaceship using 300,000 hydrogen bombs, half to get up to 10,000 kilometers per second, 3 percent the speed of light; the other half to brake. The thing could go to Alpha Centauri in about 130 years, which is pretty neat, but the really important thing is that it would burn up all the plutonium in the world in a noble cause. So I looked up what I could, and did a little figuring, a little CAD—”

The admiral’s eyebrows went up. “Where did you learn about computer assisted design, Doctor Ramos?”

“In art school, of course. Nobody paints with their hands anymore; it’s all conceptualization and audacious visuals. The theory is to bypass the cerebral cortex entirely, exciting the brainstem—”

“Spare me your theories of aesthetics, Doctor. What got you in trouble?”

“Yes, of course, sir,” replied Turi John, wrenching himself back onto the main track. “Now that particular concept, the one that got me into trouble, the secret meaning of the Orion Starship, is just so great, so aesthetically perfect, that I can hardly tell you! We take all the world’s plutonium, that terrible stuff named after the lord of hell, and we use it to send man and life into heaven! Symbolically, it is the binding of Death into the service of Life, and the ultimate aspiration of our technological civilization and the salvation of mankind from the terrible demon technology has unleashed, and the visuals! Admiral, I did some really fine visuals.”

The man is mad, utterly mad, thought Fontaine resignedly. He is, nevertheless, still connected. “For the Orion uh, starship?”

“Yes.The problem was, when I started talking up my ideas, showing my conceptualizations around, I ran bang-smack into the forces of reaction and ignorance.” Turi John crossed his legs to display a multinational tasseled loafer: Spanish leather, crafted in England to Italian design by Indian workers. “The thing was, back in the dark ages, the US signed onto the Geneva Convention banning the use of nuclear weapons and nuclear-powered spaceships.”

“Uh, banning the use of nuclear weapons in space, I think you mean. Go on.”

“Whatever, sir. Well, the thing was, here was a really great way to get rid of this awful plutonium inventory we’ve accumulated, and the reactions of the people I talked to were really very, very positive about the idea. Then, just as I was about to go public, somebody lowered the boom.”

“Probably the secretary of state,” remarked Fontaine. “Being up to his ass in alligators, he didn’t appreciate you telling him how to drain the damn swamp?”

“Oh no, sir. The secretary was very polite when I told him about what I was doing, but somebody in the State Department wanted me pulled off the team serving with the UNNDC. Professional jealousy, I do believe.”

The secretary of state told you to back off and you didn’t want to hear it, I expect. “Whatever, Doctor Ramos. Look, on a more practical level, you are entitled to your own office and your own secretary. The thing is, right now we don’t have a private office to put you in, nor a spare secretary, either.”

“That’s all right, I don’t mind a little inconvenience, as long as it’s temporary.”

I’ll be out of this place in less than a year, thought Fontaine. “Temporary is the word, young man. For the time being, we’ll give you a desk in Captain Bauman’s section.”

“What sort of horsepower on the desk, sir?”

“All the perks you’d have in your own office, Doctor. Phone, fax, scanner, computer, and coffee maker. You’d like a window, too? We’ll see what the captain has to offer.”

“No copier?”

“Our copying center is just down the hall.”

“Sounds good; what will I be doing?”

Ah, he had to ask. “That will be largely up to you. Your official tide will be something like Space Program Conceptualizer, if that’s any help.”

“Uh, no sir.To tell you the truth, it sounds like drawing up pretty pictures to snow congress.”

A flash of insight from this fop? People do surprise you now and then. “Well, not exactly. Captain Bauman will show you the ropes on this tight little ship of ours.”

Captain Mary Ellen Bauman was a short, stocky brunette with a touch of silver in her close-cropped hair. She was tough as nails and looked it. “What do we do? Well, think about it, Doctor Ramos. What are the only products we can get from space? Information, which the intelligence community has been very, very tight about sharing, and power, beamed down as microwaves.”

A regular Navy type, thought Turi John, uneasily. Terribly good at details, and no imagination, no soul at all. “On Luna they can mine iron with a magnet, I saw them doing it on television.”

“Public television, I expect. Was that the program on building the centrifuge?”

“I think so,” he said, crossing his legs. “Yes, yes, they were doing sand casting, in grooves pressed right onto the surface of the Moon, forming those huge cast iron girders to hold the 100-meter centrifuge together.”

“Which is all very well for the poor bastards sweating out their tour of duty up there. It will make it a lot easier for them to return to Earth.” Captain Bauman studied her new charge, looking for signs that he might be useful but finding nothing obvious or even hopeful. “But there is no way in hell that we are going to be able to deliver a few thousand tons of steel to Detroit or Yokohama. Which leaves beaming down microwaves.”

“But you could deliver thousands of tons of steel into lunar orbit, couldn’t you?”

A sigh. “In principal, yes, Doctor Ramos. There is, alas, no demand for steel in lunar orbit.”

“Not even for building power plants so as to beam power down to Yokohama and places like that?”

She shook her head. “Unfortunately, the answer is no. We’ve done a feasibility study, constructing the tiny pilot plant that’s beaming power down to Luna Station, but that was all she wrote.”

“Why aren’t you going forward?” asked Turi John.

“Politics. Power is in surplus right now, what with all the wind farms and pv panels coming on line, with I don’t know how many cogeneration plants upping the efficiency of our existing facilities. The vested interests don’t want to disrupt the status quo, and nobody wants to spend billions and billions now to save a penny or two per kilowatt-hour later.”

Wasn’t there something he’d read, somewhere? “Couldn’t you dedicate that extra power for making fresh water from the sea?”

“What, you watch PBS on a regular basis? I vetted the script for that program, and saw to it that they didn’t make the case against the idea.”

He looked a little shocked at learning that PBS might have had a slant in its reporting. “Which was?”

“Enemy action,” she said. “What they left out was that those space arrays beaming down the power are big, fragile targets, vulnerable as hell.”

“Up there in space? How could they be vulnerable?”

“Lasers, missiles, sabotage, you name it. No nation is going to put itself in a position where its enemies can cut off its water. Look what happened to Syria and Iraq after Turkey built those dams to cut off their water.”

“That’s how the Neo-Turkish Empire came into being,” conceded Turi John. “Maybe in California?”

“We-ell, being the inde-goddamned-pendent Westerners that they are, Californians supported the idea, as long as they weren’t going to have to pay for it. The rest of the country is tired of developing the West, and the bill never got out of committee.”

“We aren’t doing anything in this office then?”

“Right now, Doctor Ramos, things are pretty much at a standstill. What can be done technically is either utterly forbidden or totally unfunded.”

“These pictures are very nice,” Admiral Fontaine said, admiring the portfolio Dr. Ramos had brought in. “They look rather like Chesley Bonestell’s work.”

“People have told me that,” Turi John said.Then he laughed. “The computer software I used does all the hard stuff. Me, I wouldn’t have the patience to fiddle with shadows and angles and all the little detail sh—” he caught himself “—tuff.”

Captain Bauman’s eyebrows went up. “Shtuff? Right. Now what was it you were saying we should be doing with this cockamamie thing?”

“It’s a way to get rid of the world’s plutonium stockpiles,” he replied. “An end result devoutly to be desired.”

“Look, Doctor Ramos,” growled the white-haired man. “Finding a sink for plutonium isn’t our business.”

“It has a lot of popular support, sir.”

“Not in the Defense Department. You must know that the joint chiefs are very skeptical about giving up anything they can’t get back.”

“They gave up nuclear missiles,” replied Turi John.

“But not the plutonium. Push comes to shove, the inventory can be remade into warheads.”

Which is why everybody wants to get rid of the awful stuff, thought Turi John sadly. “Are they going to do it before you retire?”

The admiral smoothed back his white hair. “Not bloody likely” he conceded at last.

“So this will put some life into our moribund space program. All we really need is to get our project excused from the Geneva Convention. Once that happens, there will be such a gush of funding that we won’t be able to spend it all.”

Captain Bauman looked bemused. “Now, now, Doctor Ramos. Doubling the US Squadron of the High Skies Fleet would soak up more cash than will ever be forthcoming.”

“High Skies Fleet?”

“A little Navy humor, there. The several models of the Delta Clipper that replaced the shuttle are a so-called fleet under the nominal command of the UN, the various squadrons being under the command of the nations that paid for the individual ships, the US, Russia, Japan, Germany, a joint Franco-British squadron, and China.”

“Well,” said Turi John, doubtfully. “I’m sure the joint chiefs will get all those Delta Clippers under a unified command at the appropriate time. What we do first, see, is design an Orion Starship.”

“Like your drawings?” she asked delicately.

I know my limitations, you bitch. No need to rub my nose in it. “My drawings? No, no, do it right, put your back into it, use classified research, that sort of thing.”

“Hmm,” said Fontaine, his grey eyes thoughtful. “Do you know how much stuff we don’t know how to build? You’re talking a hundred-year trip here.”

“So we start off small,” said Captain Bauman. “A research ship to find out what we need to know.”

“The joint chiefs won’t like it,” said the admiral.

“You? You’re retiring in less than a year” she said. “What do you care if the joint chiefs don’t like the idea? We don’t have to build anything, you know.”

“Not build anything?” Turi John was distressed. “What do you mean?! Building the Orion Starship is the whole idea!”

“No,” said Captain Bauman pensively. “If the admiral agrees, I’ll turn in a six-iteration preliminary design… which, off the top of my head, will weigh in at 100,000 tons, just like Freeman Dyson suggested. Then Doctor Ramos here will run it up the flagpole and see if anyone salutes.”

“Wait a minute,” said Turi John, suddenly apprehensive. “What is it I’m going to be doing?”

“You, Doctor Ramos, are a political appointee,” she replied. “What you do is pretty much inde-goddamned-pendent of what I, or the admiral or the joint chiefs or the secretary want. Right?”

You bitch, you’re going to get rid of me, aren’t you? “Uh, yeah. Yes, I guess so.”

“So what we do here in this office, really, is design stuff that never gets built. For you, we’ll design an Orion Starship prototype, with the clear understanding that it is a prototype, that it’s going to need work. You, in turn, will hold an unauthorized press conference, in which you announce that you have found a sink for the world’s plutonium.”

“But, but…” My God, thought Turi John, dismayed, even the senator couldn’t get me out of the mess that will stir up. “…that could cost me my job.”

“Well, yes, Doctor Ramos,” said the admiral in his kindliest manner. “That is the down side of the idea. You’ve been telling us how wonderful this Orion Starship is, so surely you ought to be willing to take a few chances for your brainchild.”

“You want me to get my people started on the thing?” asked Bauman.

The grey eyes were hooded in thought. “Explain the circumstances to them,” said Fontaine at last. “It might be good for morale.”

Dr. Sioux Kerry finished the adjustment and came off the top of the four-meter ladder with an easy drop against the gentle lunar gravity. “Now try it,” she said. Winslow hit the switch, and the huge optical cable, thicker than a man’s arm, pulled back from the light pipe it was insolating, and rolled on the semi-circular track, throwing a powerful beam of sunlight across the inside of the vaulted room as it did so. Finally it aligned itself with the second light pipe which insolated a second growing chamber, pushed itself forward into position, and locked itself in place with a gentle click. The first chamber was now dark, the second brightly lit.

“Works fine,” said Winslow, approvingly. “Break for lunch?”

Kerry nodded, and folded up her utility tool. “Prototypes. If I was doing it over again, I think I’d lose the damn track, though.”

“You need to have the on-off cycle so the plants will grow don’t you?” During the two-week lunar night, the alternation was done with electric lights, which presented no switching problems. During the two-week lunar day, the two chambers alternated day and night by piping in raw sunlight, and the switching was easy once you figured out what needed to be done.

“Yeah, sure. Only the way we built it, there’s too much play, too much gross motion. You see how that cable keeps getting out of adjustment, don’t you? This is the third adjustment in two months. What I’d do is have the optical cable coming in from the parabolic mirror, I’d have that cable stop up there on the ceiling. Then we’d put a secondary optical cable on each light guide, and make the switch between the two chambers by going…” She made a hand gesture to indicate turning a switch and snapped the utility tool into its pouch.

“That would work. Maybe that’s the way we ought to do it on the next one,” suggested Winslow.

“What next one?”

“Complex Six, Doctor Sioux. We finished the excavation already, and so far the chambers are testing real good as far as leaks are concerned. The power lines are in place, so all we have to do is install the lighting system and start growing stuff.”

A sigh. “We haven’t got enough water. We don’t even have enough water for here.”

“We don’t need water, do we? Everything gets recycled, right?”

“Eventually.” Kerry opened her lunch box. “Look, Winslow, one of the things we’re wanting to do eventually is set us up an orchard. Fruit trees, all right? Apples, oranges, peaches, plums, you name it. Know what the problem is? Our water inventory gets tied up in the wood and isn’t available for recycling.”

Winslow blinked. “Trees aren’t water,” he said. “Trees are wood.”

“Come on, Winslow, wood is mostly cellulose, which is a sugar polymer, and sugar monomer is typically C_6H_12O_6, one molecule of water for every atom of carbon. Cellulose is more than half water, for God’s sake.”

“Well, we just have to requisition some more water then.”

Kerry unscrewed the thermos and poured herself a cup of hot tea. “At $200 a pint for shipping you aren’t going to get much.”

“It’s a lot cheaper growing our own food up here than shipping stuff up from Earth.”

“That’s true.” She took a cautious sip of tea. “What’s really cheaper, though, is to cut staff. That way, you don’t need to schlep up the food or the water.”

Winslow unwrapped an egg salad sandwich. The local food chain recycled human wastes to bacteria, feeding the resulting single-cell protein to the chickens. “You hear rumors,” he conceded. “But they aren’t going to close us down. Are they?”

“Remember the prospectus? The big deal was: We’ll beam cheap power down to Earth and build a city in the sky doing it. You know what happened? Wind farms happened. New and improved photovoltaics happened. Power got cheap. How cheap? Cheaper than we can make it. We’re here because we’re here, but as God is my witness, we sure aren’t going anywhere.”

“How come?” he asked. “I mean, all that we have to do is start building the stuff, power stations or DSMs, whatever. We can do it here, or in lunar orbit, whichever works best.”

“You think cities are all glass and steel, don’t you? Back home, cities were always built where the water was, and what the earliest civilizations were all about was hydraulics; dams, levees, canals, irrigation projects.” She took a bite of her chicken sandwich, and washed it down with a swallow of tea. “Water is something Luna ain’t got, Winslow, and without water, there aren’t going to be any cities.”

“Not on Luna, maybe, but in orbit, at the L-5 point or somewhere.”

She sighed. Winslow wouldn’t admit that a lack of water was more than a temporary problem, soluble by signing a requisition form. “Yeah, sure. Look, what a city needs is a hinterland, someplace to grow the food, right?”

“That’s what we’re doing here,” he agreed. “Edibles engineering.”

“You don’t like farming? The other thing a hinterland does is recycle, reusing the—call it the post-consumer edibles.”

“Well, we recycle now, Doctor Sioux.”

She finished her sandwich. “Yeah, sure. And I can taste the single-cell protein they fed that poor chicken, too. It would be nice to eat a little higher on the food chain, Winslow, but for that you need water.”

“I agree! What do you say we requisition a couple of tons?”

“Hey, as long as you’re wishing, why not a couple of hundred tons?”

CHAPTER 2

The Planting

The gods blessed Turi John Ramos’s press conference with a slow news day coming at the end of a slow news week. He looked out at the reporters who had responded to his early morning call and knew that he was going to get his hearing. They’ll hear what you have to say, he thought, and refuse to believe it, to act on it, so at the very best you’ll be going down in a blaze of glory. He found the thought terrifying, but at the same time oddly comforting; if the world couldn’t be saved it wouldn’t be because he, personally, hadn’t done his best.

Palms moist, mouth dry, he walked up to the podium as punctually as if he was attending his own execution, and began his presentation. He rambled on for twenty minutes explaining the evils of plutonium, the rationale for building the starship, and another ten on the necessity for getting an exemption from the Geneva Convention. Then, as his allotted time in the departmental auditorium was beginning to run out, he came around to the business at hand, the solution he was proposing to the problems he had just outlined.

“The solution, ladies and gentlemen, is to build an Orion Starship, a starship driven by hydrogen bombs.” There was a sudden stir as the reporters pricked up their ears; there was a story here, after all.

“There is, of course, far too much that we don’t know about building an Orion Starship, let alone building one in space, which is where it would have to be done. So what we are proposing to do is take it in small steps. First, set up a yard, or an assembly area in lunar orbit, where we can collect matter shot up from the lunar surface to build ourselves a prototype. It is our belief that the physics of the Orion Starship can be solved rather easily. The initial plans call for a vehicle massing 100,000 tons, driven by a parabolic sail 1,200 meters deep, having a mouth 2,000 meters wide. At the focal point of the parabola, we will explode—in the vacuum of space—a hydrogen bomb, which will give our vessel a kick in the pants—pardon me, an impetus—amounting to a one second pulse of about six g. Two times an hour for eight and a half years.” He turned to the model he had brought with him, a clear plastic hemisphere with a long, skinny stem. “That’s hard traveling, folks. The recoil mechanism will soften it, sort of like this….” He held the stem and pushed the bell up onto it, hoping the drop of oil had stopped the sticking, and smiled with relief as the bell slowly returned to its original position. “We think a thirty or maybe thirty-five minute interval is necessary—one of the things we’re looking to find out for sure—to let the sail cool sufficiently to prevent any heat buildup from the repeated explosions that will drive the ship. At that rate, we sustain an average acceleration of about 0.02 g.

“To learn what we need to know, the prototype needs to stretch its legs, so we will not go to Mars, as has been suggested, but beyond Mars, to the outer asteroid belt. The specific destination our staff has selected is one of the Trojans, Diomedes, diameter 171 kilometers, which is known to have frozen water. At 0.02 g, this trip of 5 astronomical units, a nominal half billion miles, will take about 34 days, burning up 1,600 hydrogen bombs in the process. I have heard it said that all the Moon needs is a little water and a better class of people to be a pretty decent place. Well, ladies and gentlemen, that’s all Texas needs.” There was a laugh. “We plan to have a better class of people on board, and we know that Diomedes has water. It will have to be mined, but once at its destination, that ship of ours can easily take on all the tons of water and soil they want, and spin itself to provide our heroic crew the gravity they need.” He looked around. “Any questions?”

“Will the ship be making a round trip?” asked a woman in a red dress.

“No,” replied Turi John. “Once we reach Diomedes, the crew will practice setting up a working habitat, just as we would expect them to be doing at the end of their generations-long trip.”

“How are they going to get back?”

The ship’s boat will be provided with mass drivers mounting microwave antennae that can be remotely…” Turi John stumbled, and consulted his teleprompter. “Sorry. That would be coherent beams of microwaves from the ship’s power plant that would be remotely controlled to track the mass drivers. What sort of power plant, here? Solar power, the most environmentally friendly kind. That great sail will focus the raw sunlight falling on an area of 3.14 million square meters to provide our crew with the power they need to thrive and survive, and eventually, to come back to Earth. The trip home will take longer, but it is, in principle, entirely safe.”

He looked around the auditorium, amazed to find the reporters were hanging on his every word, dismayed to see the attendees of the next function filtering in. “With this project we will, of course, greatly improve our understanding of the material science and the physics of the starship we seek to build. More important, the crew on the prototype will learn invaluable lessons about living in space. Once they are orbiting Diomedes, our crew, drawn from the nations that will be contributing plutonium rocket fuel, will have completed that first mission. As they dig into the surface of Diomedes to mine water and soil for agriculture, they will be learning what the crew of Starship Orion will need to know to survive around Alpha Centauri.” That wraps it up, thought Turi John. Now what was my finish? His eye caught the teleprompter. Oh yes. “There are those who say that the people of Earth will get no material benefit from this. I say that if the Starship Orion does not return so much as a single out-of-focus picture it will have still been of inestimable benefit to humanity for what it has taken from them.” He looked over his audience to see a naval officer making the finger-across-the-throat sign. “The sailors at the rear of the room have some fact sheets for those who are interested.”

The secretary of the Navy, a good old boy from South Carolina who wore a hairpiece colored a decade or two younger than his hair, sat in his tall leather chair behind his huge mahogany desk and glared at Fontaine. “What the hay-ull is the idea of this, admiral?”

We aren’t on a first name basis anymore? What a pity. “Look, Delay, you were the one who said I had to take on this Ramos fellow. You talk to him, why don’t you?”

“I don’t need to talk to Doctor Ramos, Harry, his undated letter of resignation has been in the secretary’s safe since the little greaser came on board.” Fitzgerald de la Haye’s soft accent thickened with anger. “Ah need to talk to yew!”

He wants me to humbly beg his pardon, thought Fontaine. Well, the little son of a bitch can kiss my ass. “So?”

“You ain’t making this any easier on yourself, boy. Did you authorize that damned press conference this morning?”

“Verbally. Doctor Ramos was supposed to submit to me the text for vetting, but he never got around to it.”

“Oh. He never got around to it, did he, Harry? And you just let him have that press conference of his without any idea of what the man was going to say?”

Fontaine smoothed back his white hair. “That looks to be what happened, Delay.”

“Did you, Ah say, did yew have any idea what the man was going to say?”

Tell the truth and shame the devil? “Of course I did, you damn fool. Turi John Ramos ran his mouth flat out the whole time he was in my shop.”

“Ah, shee-it. Admiral, it was your bounden duty to keep that boy’s trap shut, his nose clean, his ass out of trouble. That speech he gave was on all the TV shows, and it makes us look like a pack of idiots here at Dee-fense…” Secretary de la Haye sat back in his chair, scowling. “Harry, I’m sorry, but you got to take the fall for this.”

My computer is already cleaned out, and my hardcopy files as well, thought Fontaine coolly. I can walk out of here any time I damn please. “If you say so, Delay. I’ll put in my leave slip right away.”

“Leave slip? I want your resignation, boy!”

The pouchy grey eyes looked amused. “Oh, really? I have enough leave to cover me over my retirement date, Delay. That’s as close to resignation as you’re going to get.” He reached into his pocket. “Indefinite sick leave. You’ll need to authorize it, of course.”

“Whut the hay-ull? What is this, Harry?

“A leave slip. Don’t you political types believe in paperwork?”

The secretary of the Navy crumpled the slip into a ball of paper and threw it at the waste basket. “You’re not getting out of here that easily, boy. There’s flak to catch, and yew are going to be up in front to catch it! Once you get sick of it, you miserable bastard, once you got yourself bloody well fed up, then you can resign!”

“This trial balloon of yours was a stupid, pernicious idea,” said the secretary of defense. “Nevertheless, some people who ought to know better are clapping like trained seals at this display of unexpected brilliance from your Navy Department, Mister de la Haye.”

The secretary of the Navy blotted his forehead with his handkerchief. “I’ll issue a statement killing it immediately, sir. Or I’ll have Rear Admiral Fontaine repudiate his work for us. No problem.”

“Getting the genie back in the bottle may be harder than you think. The Russians, of all people, have said that this seems to be an excellent solution for the disposal of their inventory of pits—those grapefruit-sized balls of plutonium left over from the Cold War.” He paused. “They are a bit of a security problem, of course.”

“And the French,” added the secretary of state. “The French support the Russians, claiming they would welcome this opportunity to dedicate their own stockpile of fissionables to what they describe as ‘this humane and civilized use.’ ”

“Well, uh, I’m sorry that the idea is making waves,” said de la Haye. “But it isn’t a program, or anything. It’s just an idea—isn’t it?”

The secretary of state doodled on the yellow pad before him. “Well, my information is that the Russians are going to present it as a formal proposal in the UNNDC.”

“That’s blue smoke and mirrors. My Gawd, where did you git holt of a tale like that?”

“The Russian ambassador asked me. Since it was an American—he called it an initiative rather than a trial balloon—if we were going to move on it immediately, Mister de la Haye. When I said we were presently taking the matter under advisement, he asked if we would mind if his country formally introduced our proposal.”

De la Haye’s mouth fell open. “What did you say?”

A shrug. “I told him we’d get back to him. He said he hoped it would be within the next day or two, because our ‘initiative’ is very popular. The Russian Parliament has already passed a sense of the Duma resolution supporting it.”

“Are the Russians committed to actually giving up any pits?” asked the secretary of defense.

“Nooo, but some of them are sure thinking about it.”

“My Gawd. What about the Geneva Convention that says we can’t do it?”

A shrug. “The Russian ambassador thinks the Geneva Convention is going to be modified to permit preparing a prototype starship in the very near future.”

“Well,” said the secretary of defense, groping about in the cloud of gloom for the possibility of a silver lining. “In that case, maybe we can get a little money out of Congress to fund the sucker?”

“Well, hell,” said Senator Metcalfe, the chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee, a fashion plate straight out of Arizona Highways from the pearl grey Stetson on the top of his head to the ostrich-skin cowboy boots on his feet. “They put too much celery seed in the coleslaw, again. Proper barbecue needs a nice sweet slaw.”

“I thought the coleslaw was excellent, Uncle.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Turi John, it’s good slaw. The thing is, it’s supposed to he’p set the stage for the barbecue, not be a star in its own right.” He chewed a mouthful reflectively. “Be raht good with chili, though.”

“Nobody seems to be complaining.”

“Hell, boy, you think the movers, shakers and groupies at this do are going to come around and bellyache about the coleslaw?” Metcalfe threw back his head and laughed. “I’ll bet most of them won’t even leave any on their plates. You here lobbying for that Orion so-called Starship?”

“I’m afraid so, Uncle. It just seemed like it would be such a great thing…

Metcalfe looked at his watch. “I’ll give you five minutes, my boy, because you ah my own flesh and blood. However, there are some other lobbyists here talking up that same cockamamie idea, and since they are paying in the traditional coin of the realm, I feel honor-bound to hear them out.”

“What lobbyists?”

“The usual suspects. Izzy McWilliams, for the Rolls-Royce plant south of Dallas that would be making engines for any new clippers that get built. Billy Sol Harris for Gulf Hydrogen. A few others.”

“They want to make money off of this?”

The senator nodded. “Nephew, they’ll tell me that this bloody starship of yours means good times for Texas in general and them in particular, and how can you blame a man for wanting to make some money?”

“My God, Uncle! We’re getting rid of the curse of nuclear war, we are. for Christ’s sake, going to the stars, and you’re talking about the goddamned pork barrel?”

“Ah, Turi, Turi, Turi. If the good ol’ boys can’t do well by doing good, there’s a lot of good in this world would never get done. The president, he comes around and tells me, George, he says, I hate it, but it looks like we gotta have this one. Why? Because it will get him reelected, that’s why. Does he like giving up the nation’s crown jewels, all them little bomb pits we got stashed away so carefully? No, he does not. And to tell you the truth, neither do I, but if the Russians and the Chinese and the rest are willing, then we sort of have no choice.”

“What’s the point of keeping all that plutonium around if you can’t use it or even threaten to use it, Uncle? Eventually some fool will get ahold of the stuff and blow us all to kingdom come.”

The senator took a bite of barbecue and chewed thoughtfully. “It’s like handguns, Turi John, only worse. For some people handguns are a drug; the guns give ’em a power high. Those people will not give them up. Remember that old bumper sticker, ‘The only way to take my gun is to pry it out of my cold, dead fingers?’ You may not like it, but those people sincerely mean that very thing.”

“I don’t like it, but I don’t understand it either.”

The senator pushed his Stetson back with his thumb. “Power is an illusion, boy—if people think you have power, then you have it. That works both ways, of course. If you have the illusion that you are powerful, then to a degree you are.You walk down the street and people get out of your way because you look so damned dangerous. But if you’re wrong, watch out, you’ll get the crap beat out of you. Or shot dead. That makes no never mind. People still cling to that illusion of theirs, that illusion of power, even though they know that it’s dangerous, because it makes them feel so goddamned good.”

“Nuclear weapons are different,” said Ramos, loosening his Italian silk necktie with a nervous gesture. “Aren’t they?”

“Hey, you were the one working for the UNNDC. When nuclear bombs are outlawed, only outlaws will have nuclear bombs, right?”

The senator does go off on the strangest tangents, thought Turi John. “You think the starship is maybe going to fall through the cracks?”

“Maybe, maybe not. You look too far in the future,Turi John,you get seriously confused. Space stuff is popular, and getting rid of the world’s plutonium is popular. Plus once you build that prototype, you’ve got some momentum, but then will be when push comes to shove about all the hard stuff.”

“You do think getting to Diomedes will help?” asked Turi John.

“Help the starship?” asked the senator, putting more beans and barbecue on his plate. “The slaw is good, Turi John, but a wee bit too tangy. Oh, sure, once Diomedes Station is in place and sending back data to build the real tiling”—he paused to take a forkful of beans—“that’d he’p some, but only with the easy stuff.”

“I wouldn’t call designing a starship easy, uncle.”

The problem is going to be prying those plutonium pits out of all the world’s cold, dead fingers, thought die senator. “You think coaxing some 40,000 pits out of a country like India isn’t going to be hard? India doesn’t even admit to having that many.”

Ramos hesitated and changed the subject. “Whatever.The project will still be a source of pork, and according to you, if there’s money to be made from doing a thing, people will see that it gets done, right?”

Metcalfe shook his head. “Making money is one thing, Turi John, prying peoples’ guns out of their cold, dead fingers is something else.” He looked up; “HEY McWILLIAMS! C’MON OVER! Ah need to talk tew yew!”

Oh well, thought Turi John, piling more barbecue and coleslaw on his plate, the senator looks to be foursquare behind the prototype. He wandered off into the crowd as a Country and Western band struck up a melancholy ballad.

Dr. Sioux Kerry came up the tunnel with Winslow wheeling a basket full of starchy produce, red and yellow yams, russet potatoes, orange pumpkins and sweet corn. They brought the basket in for weighing at the cafeteria kitchen, as Colonel Levsky came up in fatigues with a load of radishes, peppers, tomatoes and cucumbers.

“Hello, Sioux,” he said cheerfully. “What do you think of the news?”

“You mean the starship, Pavel Ivanovitch?” said Dr. Kerry. “I’m not so sure it can be done. That’s speaking as a Lunarian agrarian, of course.”

“The physics seems entirely straightforward,” said Levsky. “And once we evaluate the prototype, the engineering looks to be pretty much integrating several well-understood technologies.”

“Chicken farming is a well-understood technology, and we’re still trying to get chickens to thrive in this godforsaken place,” she replied. “A starship will be ten times worse, and that’s not counting eight years of intermittent acceleration at each end of the journey.”

“The acceleration periods will be hard,” he agreed. “But a starship! Man thrives on challenges.”

“Challenges! I’ll give you a challenge, Pavel Ivanovitch. Remember before we put the chickens in the centrifuge? On a six week growout cycle we threw 85 percent of the poor critters into the grinder to ferment and render them back into animal feed.”

“And the animal feed tasted better than the chickens,” Levsky said mournfully. “I remember. Lunar chickens are still tough and stringy, even in the centrifuge. You think we have not yet mastered the biosphere?”

“We aren’t even close. If you fondly delude yourself that we’ve got the biosphere where we want it, look at how we’re eating. You want to go to the stars on yeast protein and milk from that mechanical cow of yours?”

Colonel Levsky held up his hands, “Hey, that milk is for cheese and yogurt, not drinking.”

“You want to go to the stars on yeast and ersatz cheese?”

“If I were going to the stars, I would surely hope to be fed better than here on Luna, Sioux,” he conceded. “You think we aren’t going to do as well?”

Dr. Kerry shook her head. “You know what it took to keep our beehives going? We had to install electromagnets to approximate Earth’s magnetic field for them And they ’re still on the verge of dying out, though the bumblebees seem to doing OK. Without the umbilical from Earth, we’d have failed long since.”

“And a starship would cut the cord for sure,” said Levsky. “How sad; I want to believe, I really do.”

“The real problem with that starship isn’t going to be the physics, Pavel Ivanovitch, it’s going to be creating a sustainable biosphere that can be expanded when we arrive.”

“Your turn, chief” said Winslow, writing the weights in his log book. “Are you one of the people looking to find a nice, delicious planet at the other end?”

The colonel rolled his basket up to the scale. “No, no, no, we will surely have to build in space, just as here on Luna.”

“Building is one thing,” Winslow replied Thriving is something else.”

“More water would help,” said Levsky, unloading the peppers on the scale. “Aquaculture is doing fine in principal, at least in those dinky little tanks, but we need to expand. If we only had a few hundred tons of water available, we could have all sorts of seafood.”

“We could do a lot with water,” agreed Dr. Kerry. “If we were serious about a starship—”

“You listen to the news, Earth sure sounds serious.”

“Hah! Ten years ago Earth was serious about building power stations, Winslow. No, for a starship, you need a working biosphere that can be expanded when you arrive. Maybe a hundred species of bonsai trees huddled together, all cramped and root-bound, waiting for The Day to become a vast forest.”

Colonel Levsky wrote the weights into his log book. “Look,” he said. “One of the problems with the Lunar biosphere is that we are critically short of water. Earth isn’t stupid, they know that, so where are they talking about going with the prototype? Out where there’s water, or at least ice, Diomedes, out in the Trojans.”

Dr. Kerry looked up. “Ah, Pavel Ivanovitch. Water would help, it surely would, but how are you going to fit a working biosphere into a 100,000 ton starship when half the weight is devoted to the physics of transportation?”

“Biospheres can be any size, Sioux,” he replied. “I have a working biosphere hanging above my computer, a sealed globe of water with an air bubble, tiny shrimp, and green plants, living in happy equilibrium together.”

“I’ve seen it,” she replied. “How big would it have to be to support 1,000 humans for a century or more?”

“Huh. Figure humans at 150 pounds each, times 1,000, 150,000 pounds, 75 tons. Figure they’d need 10 times their own mass in the next level of the food chain, that’s what, 750 tons? Be generous and call it 1,000 tons. That’s doable.”

“And you don’t like the food here on Luna, Pavel Ivanovitch? You’d need at least two steps, probably three. Two steps is 75 tons plus 750 plus 7,500, and that’s for the living protoplasm alone! Don’t forget the substrate; dirt to grow in, water to swim in, and air to breathe. Not to mention the energy to make the plants grow, and whatever it takes to keep the bees happy. Out of the 50,000 tons available for crew quarters, it looks like well over half is going to be biological.”

CHAPTER 3

And The Shoot

“The House-Senate conference rejected the proposal this afternoon,” said Madeline Tosca, leafing through the pages of the report. She was attending the informal staff meeting on the state of the starship, held in one of the lesser grandiose meeting rooms in the Rayburn House Office Building, by virtue of her undeniable talents. She was chairing it by virtue of her connections.

“Ah, here we are. Despite the Senate’s vigorous efforts, led by the rambunctious Senator Metcalfe, the House appears to be unwilling to fund a prototype starship that does nothing except test the hydrogen bomb drive on a short test flight to Diomedes. The Honorable Stanley Wysinski says: “The Starship-prototype has simply too many problems needing to be solved to tackle them one at a time. When they reach Diomedes, the crew will have to do something, not just pile into the ship’s boat and come on home. Does he have anything in mind?”

“Not really,” said a senior staffer, newly come to the foot of the long, polished conference table. “My sense of Stan’s position is that he’s opposed, but he’s looking for honorable arguments to use in this case, Doctor Tosca.”

“I do not hold a doctorate,” she replied gently. “If you wish to grant me an honorific, Professor will do; I profess to know a lot about practically everything.”

“What should the Honorable Stanley W. have had in mind?” asked Turi John Ramos, cutting back to the question.

“There have been a few arguments among ourselves,” Tosca reminded him, referring to the starship’s supporters. “A few well-ventilated differences of opinion on the talk show circuit which might confuse the uninitiated. I expect the man would like us to reach a consensus before we start spending the taxpayer’s money.”

“You Americans,” said Colonel PI. Levsky looking bored rather than annoyed. “As my government has said before, to design a Starship one must work on the three main problems concurrently.”

“What does your government think they are?”

“Well, Doctor Ramos, we all are working on the first two, of course, the drive, and the SRB,” he saw Ramos’s blank expression and explained the initials. “That would be the Stress Resistant Biosphere, for the generation ship. The third problem is: What do we do when we arrive? Once our prototype arrives at Diomedes, it must be prepared to build its own structures, its own habitats, which it must then infuse with the life from the ship’s AHB, or Ad Hoc Biosphere.”

“I’m not sure that your third problem corresponds to what the several groups arguing over the mission description have in mind,” said Turi John, at last. “What task do you people want the prototype to perform, anyway?”

Levsky reached into his briefcase and produced a file folder. “These are the first results of that little robot flotilla that my government sent light-sailing off to Diomedes a few months back,” he said politely. “You surely knew that Diomedes was part of a planetesimal system when you picked it out as your destination?” Turi John shook his head.

“No? Well, you had good staffwork, then. Diomedes rotates around a common center of mass with the smaller Automeden…” he took out a glossy photograph. “And here, precisely at that center of mass is what appears to be a loosely consolidated lump of primeval matter, of, oh, about 2.8 cubic kilometers.”

“Does it have a name?” asked Madeline Tosca, examining the photograph and wondering if it had been discovered on this side of the ocean.

Levsky nodded. “One of your technicians, Charlie Cavanagh over at the NASA Image Processing Lab, said it looked like a cowflop, and for want of a more dignified alternative, Cowflop it appears to be, at least on the working papers.” He pulled out an analysis sheet. “The solids are unremarkable, mostly iron and silicates as one would expect, but Cowflop would appear to be about 12.6 percent volatiles, most of which is water. That’s by volume, of course.” He passed over the analysis sheet.

“Fascinating,” said Turi John. “Utterly fascinating. But what does this have to do with anything?”

“My thought, which is my government’s thought as well, is that this little crumb of a Cowflop—which is, you will note, over on page four, locked in rotation with Automeden and Diomedes—might be the prototype’s natural destination.”

“How do you figure?”

Levsky paused and looked around the table. “To put it as gently as possible, the prototype starship is huge and rather less than nimble,” he said. “Simulated computer landings on either Diomedes or Automeden have had problems, not so much due to their high gravity or rapid spin, but because of the prototype’s enormous mass and awkward drive mechanism.”

Turi John nodded. The H-bomb drive was not the most flexible of instruments, and at 100,000 tons, there was no room to incorporate a chemical rocket system into the basic design. “How would Cowflop be any improvement, then?”

“It isn’t spinning, for one thing. We have worked up a computer simulation which suggests that a close approach to Cowflop may be feasible.”

“How close?” asked Tosca.

“Eventually we got down in the range of 2.0 to 0.2 kilometers, all short of collision, much better than what we started off doing. At 2.0 kilometers we can send a small craft over to Cowflop, run a line from prototype to planifitesimal, and winch them together.”

“Don’t you mean planetesimal?”

“For Cowflop?” Levsky laughed. “We combined planetesimal, meaning little planet, with infinitesimal, and it still sounds pretentious!”

“That addresses the docking problem, at any rate,” said Wysinski’s staffer, making a note. “Then what?”

“Well, then the crew unfolds the ship and sets it to rotating,” said Turi John. “The, what did you call it, the AHB, gets established, and then everybody comes home.”

“Incorrect, Doctor Ramos,” said Levsky. “The prototype must be converted to space station mode, yes, I agree. That is, after all, the way it will travel once it is coasting at 3 percent the speed of light, and such a demonstration is an integral part of the feasibility study. But the crew must do more.”

A sigh. “What else remains to be done, Colonel?”

“They must build something, Professor Tosca. First, they must set up a DSM,” Levsky glanced at Turi John, and spelled it out. “A Dust Sorting Mill, Doctor Ramos. The initial use will be to separate out volatiles, water mostly, to enhance and support the AHB on the ship. Later, it will provide raw materials for the…” He paused. “The words ‘conquest of space’ are on the tip of my tongue, but they are the wrong words.”

“What do you have in mind to do, then?” askedTuri John.

“Enclosure of a biosphere,” replied Levsky. “Our cosmonauts must build an envelope and fill it with air. Air, water, soil, sunlight and life.”

“That seems a rather excessive requirement, don’t you think, Colonel Levsky?”

“At the end of this crazy, heroic star journey we are contemplating, if our cosmonauts find only dead, sterile planetary debris, they must be able to quicken it to life, mixing the dust with water and illuminating the mud with sunlight so that life, as we know it, can thrive. What tools will they need? What machines? What seeds? These are things we should try to find out.”

Turi John looked up doubtfully. “Are you sure this won’t kill the whole project?”

“Relax, Doctor Ramos,” said Wysinski’s staffer. “This is what the project is supposed to be doing, right? Suppose I pass Colonel Levsky’s idea on up to Stan, and let our people check it out?”

“An excellent idea,” said Levsky. “Excellent. Listen, if Representative Wysinski is interested, my office has been working on the details of such an ISB station. If he should be even a tiny bit interested, give me a call.”

The staffer made a note, then looked up. “I will be asked,” he said. “What’s an ISB station?”

“ISB stands for In Situ Built, of course.” He removed a card case from his pocket. “Here.Ask for Colonel Pavel Ivanovitch Levsky at either of these numbers.”

“The problem, Pavel Ivanovitch,” said Winslow, watching Lunar Three slowly turning as the shuttle approached, “is that labor is so infernally expensive up here.”

“Ridiculous, I say. Why not just assign the people that are needed and get the job done?”

Winslow smiled. “Breathing is not a problem, theoretically. Theoretically, we have the power to rip the oxygen from the so-abundant silicate rock, and we can remove the carbon dioxide any number of ways. But. If you want men to work, you have to feed them, do you not?”

Colonel Levsky shrugged. “Perhaps, though this would not be the first time that large numbers of workers starved carrying out heroic projects.”

“You have to feed them,” said Winslow. “One hectare of land will support 12 people, on the average. We have…” he rubbed his chin and stared absently out the window, “about 23 hectares altogether, not counting a few potted plants mainly useful for decoration. That area would support about 276 people; when we arrive, the total will be up to 319.”

“That is not nearly enough, we should have 1,000 construction workers alone.”

“No, no, no. The trick is to work smarter, not harder.

“What do you mean? Work is work.” Levsky shook his head in irritation. “Why not send up the 1,000 workers and get the job done?”

“You aren’t listening. Cis-lunar space has 23 hectares struggling to support 300 people. Add 1,000 workers, you’ll need another, oh, 80 hectares to support them?

“So dig more tunnels. The Moon has a world of room.”

Winslow sighed and pulled a sad face. “The Moon has a world of room and not enough water to drown a gnat. Figure that you have to schlepp up one ton of water for each of those 1,000 temporary workers you want to bring up, and you can see why we’re working smarter, instead.”

“That would be what, a half billion dollar charge for the water?”

“And that’s for just the water. Probably you want to put most of those 80 hectares we need in orbit, where the work will be done. How much did Lunar Three cost?”

“Too much,” conceded Levsky at last. “Way too much. But working ‘smart’ as you call it is an invitation to catastrophe.”

“No,” Winslow shook his head. “It used to be that the hardest thing was to make the plan. Now, with the latest version of UltraSuperHyperCAD, we can make changes on the fly, and retrofit where needed. We don’t even have to get the approval of the central planners; the people doing the work are their own experts.”

“Luna hasn’t got room for a bureaucracy,” Levsky agreed. “In the past, I, myself have put my hand to gardening, and kitchen police besides.” He hesitated, thinking of his protracted efforts to make the BBC give milk. “Give me an example of something that was solved on the fly. Give me a for instance.”

“Well, being a metallurgist, I’ll give a metallurgical example-1 helped work out the aluminum slurry technique, for instance.” The original plans had called for fabricating steel pipe in orbit, which proved to be impossible to do on the scale needed. The aluminum slurry technique used lasers, a fly’s-eye lens, and an electric field to grow sapphire whiskers from molten aluminum under oxygen. Periodically, the aluminum was stirred, and fresh whiskers were grown. The viscosity of the slurry provided the cue to when the batch was done, and when the ratio was 2:1 aluminum to aluminum oxide whiskers, the batch was cast into a billet. Luna Base then shot up the billet to Lunar Three, which remelted it and fabricated the slurry.

“You mean the machine that slip-casts the pipe for the big rocket cham-ber?” The “big rocket chamber” was a geodesic hemisphere 2,000 meters in diameter.

“No, no, no. The machine that feeds that machine.”

“I see. You support the machine that builds the starship?”

“Machines, Pavel Ivanovitch, great, greasy gangs of machines. That’s why we don’t need 1,000 workers to get the job done. The machines do the heavy lifting, and we’re here to supervise them.”

“Very good?” Levsky looked dubious. “NO! This is too fancy, too baroque.They should have stuck with the original plan, using iron pipe!”

“What are you ranting about? Originally they were going to use iron pipe because iron was dirt cheap. On parts of the lunar surface you can pick up iron with a magnet,” Winslow rubbed his chin. “Aluminum needs to be refined, and the sapphire whiskers need to be grown, yes. But machines are doing all of those things. The aluminum composite is better, and it is cheaper because it needs less labor input.”

Levsky sighed and shook his head.

“How is my government to project national power, to display will, machismo, heroism, when an objection based on mere cost accounting is treated as if it was serious?”

“What is your complaint? Or your government’s complaint? We are ahead of schedule and under budget.”

“In some circles there is resistance to giving up the national armamentarium,” said the colonel at last. “The prototype is moving along wonderfully, yes, but the true starship, the one we shall build after the prototype, that, my friend, may never be launched.”

The train of modules encased in the six recoil tracks moved slowly back to battery, the starting place where it would stand when the first hydrogen bomb was exploded in the vast reaction chamber. Appearances were deceiving; the tracks, together with the modules, now fully loaded, had about the same mass as the great, geodesic hemisphere that formed the reaction chamber. The two parts of the system were moving in equal and opposite directions, but the human eye, looking at the huge, shining hemisphere compared it with the comparatively insignificant train of modules, and attributed all motion to the train of modules.

“A pity we can’t fire a test charge or two,” said Morgan, the former Navy test pilot detailed from NASA via the United Nations to command the prototype starship. “It goes back easily enough.”

“The total mass is 112,850 tons,” said Colonel P.I. Levsky. “Once it starts moving, stopping it is going to be a bitch. Or do I mean “son of a bitch?” Your idiomatic expressions are confusing at times.”

“Either is correct,” replied Morgan easily. “Though bitch conforms to current usage.” He sighed. “What a pity they won’t let us do a little practical testing before we take that hot, hot motor out for its trial run.”

“The world has been doing test runs on the propulsion system since 1945,” observed Dr. Sioux Kerry. “You can’t blame the general public for not wanting to let the experts play with their oh, so dangerous toys any more than is absolutely necessary.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Madeline Tosca. “The engineering is quite conservative. One of the things the prototype will do is show us what we can cut.”

“The recoil rails are overbuilt,” Morgan agreed. “While the support for the modules… you might be able to drop the gross weight by 10 percent.”

“That will be decided when we have the engineering data that the prototype will provide,” said Dr. Kerry. “In the meantime, I have got to establish the biosphere we want to take.”

A timer sounded. The modules had returned to their original position. “It’s 18:32.6!” said Morgan with satisfaction. “That means that we don’t have to start reloading the chamber from the magazine until we have a full stop. All right!”

“When are we going to start?” asked the Russian.

“When we’re ready, of course, Colonel Levsky. But it will be soon, now. Days, rather than weeks.”

The estimate of “days” was optimistic, but soon, soon thereafter the prototype starship slipped its moorings, pushing itself slowly away from Lunar Three under the impetus of mass drivers mounted on tiny space tugs. When the prototype was properly aligned and on the far side of the Moon from Earth, the main engine was started, firing one hydrogen bomb every half hour, as the voyage to Diomedes got underway.

Thirty-four days later, at the end of what proved to be a routine trip, Captain Morgan detonated a fifty-kiloton squib in the giant reaction chamber, to match velocities with the planifitesimal Cowflop at a distance of just under a kilometer. When the prototype starship had converted itself to “Diomedes Station I” it looked like a great mirrored bowl pointing at the Sun. Inside the bowl was the heat engine driven by sunlight, and behind the bowl was the torus of modules that enclosed the biosphere. To provide gravity, the torus was spun in one direction, while the bowl and heat engine were spun in the other. The whole assembly was balanced on three of the unshipped recoil rails, which were firmly grounded on Cowflop’s newly arrived industrial complex. One rail sat on the dust sorting mill and chemical plant, the other two sat on the steel plant and the glass and aluminum plant, respectively.

The leadership council met in the module that now sat next to the cafeteria end of the crew quarters module. There was light, air, and a fair approximation of normal gravity. On the wall was a poster of Cowflop, and on the table was a model of the newly reconfigured space station. “We seem to be set up, more or less,” said Madeline Tosca, checking the light setting on her videocamera. “Now what?”

“We have these questions from the ‘MacArthur-Levine News Hour,’ said Hewlitt Morgan. “They’ve been in—I guess you could call it e-mail—contact with us for the past couple of days. Anyway, they’ve scripted out the result, and we’re supposed to read our answers.”

“What’s the point?” asked Winslow.

“Human interest translates into public support for the project,” said Sioux Kerry. “Read the first question.”

“Supposedly this will be Morton Levine speaking,” said Morgan. “He’s going to congratulate us for making history and segue to the question: “Now that the Dyson’s Dream has successfully landed, what are you going to do?”

“Start making stuff,” Colonel’s Levsky offered. “Steel wire, aluminum slurry billets, glass ingots. We get the raw materials on hand, we can figure out how to use them later.”

“Can we edit him out?” asked Dr. Sioux Kerry from the other end of the table. “I’d like to take the question.”

“Go ahead,” said Morgan.

“Thank you,” she replied. “We begin by enlarging our biosphere, which means expanding into the pressurized, gravitized and illuminated modules right here in Diomedes Station. Why? At normal consumption rates our food stores will be exhausted in about three months, and there is no prospect of resupply. Either we feed ourselves or starve.”

“The lady has a point,” Levsky said at last. “And perhaps she should expand on it. What will it take to expand this cramped and inadequate biosphere of ours?”

“Start with water,” Dr. Kerry replied. “Then dirt. We’ll have to make the dirt.”

“You have a recipe?”

“I have several, Winslow, but we’re starting with water. We’ll fill up the fish tanks, adjust the pH, and let the water come to equilibrium with the aquatic plants. Then we introduce the fish, and feed them all that single cell cr—protein that gets rendered out of the digestors.”

“That pretty much covers the first question, I guess. Then Levine wants to know: ‘What’s the worst news you’ve discovered for the starship, proper?’

“That would be me, again,” said Dr. Kerry. “In thirty-four days of hard traveling we lost about half the chickens. No way are they going to make it through a longer trip.”

Morgan nodded. “What was wrong with them?”

“They were dying is what was wrong. Figure that on a real trip to the stars you’ll be accelerating for years instead of weeks, and you can scratch the chickens.”

“The stars will belong to the Orthodox Vegans?” asked Morgan, deviating from his script. “Moving right along, when you get around to actually building a local space station out here, what will it look like?”

“Power panels,” said Winslow. “We’ll start off by doing a Diomedes Electric, analogous to Lunar Electric.”

“Unmanned, of course,” added Colonel Levsky.

“Of course,” agreed Winslow. “Potentially, the biosphere could soak up all the power we can produce. So rather than argue over the allocation of resources, we’ll create new resources, starting with power.”

“The public isn’t going to give a damn about unmanned solar power plants,” said Morgan. “That’s old stuff; Lunar Electric was designed thirty or forty years ago. What are we going to build for people?”

Stepping from behind the camera the flamboyant Tosca looked up. “Winslow, trade places with me so I can take that one.” And when she was sitting behind the table she looked straight into the camera, radiating personality. “The power plant is designed for people. Everything we do here is designed for people. The station on the drawing board right now is a refined version of the tire and tube design that was put up at Lunar Three.”

“And just how was it refined?” asked Morgan, feeding her the question.

“The shielding in the ‘tire’ is going to be heavier, for one thing. For another,” Tosca hesitated, sorting through a mental list of changes. “Lunar Three has mirrors reflecting the sunlight through glass windows on the inside surface of the ‘tube,’ so that one deck of biosphere gets insolated.”

“That’s right,” said Morgan. “They tilt the mirrors to make day and night.”

“So that half the time we aren’t using the mirrors. The new station, call it Diomedes Three, will have an array of parabolic mirrors, like the ones that insolate the tunnels at Luna Base.”

“How would this be an improvement?”

“The mirrors will feed the sunlight into optical fibers, which run to light pipes, and the optical fibers can be switched back and forth between two decks of biosphere. Which take turns with day and night.”

“Levine wants to know how long you think this will take to complete?”

“Let me take that one,” said Winslow, and he traded places with Madeline Tosca. “The answer is: It depends. If everything goes well, we could have the jig set up for fabricating the tire and tube in about six months. After that, we’d cast one or two-meter increments a day until we got the torus completed.”

“A couple of years, you think?”

“If everything goes well, Captain Morgan. So far, so good, but you never can tell when something will go wrong.”

CHAPTER 4

Then Comes The Frost

“That completes our news-making interview with the cosmonauts out at Diomedes Station,” said Morton Levine. “We now present a pair of experts to discuss what it all means. With us tonight are Rear Admiral Henry Fontaine, USN, Retired, who is now a fellow of WISH, the Washington Institute for Space Habitation.” Fontaine smiled and nodded. “And Captain Mary Ellen Bauman, from the NRDC, the Naval Research and Development Command.” Bauman simply nodded.

“Admiral Fontaine, let’s start with you.”

“Thank you, Morton. From where I sit, it looks like all the problems of the starship proper have been solved, or are easily soluble. As far as physics and engineering go, we know how to build the ship, already. In fact, I think the prototype could have successfully made the trip.”

“What about the problems with the livestock?”

“It would appear that joke someone made about Orthodox Vegans has an element of truth to it, Morton. Certainly you aren’t going to be driving great herds of cattle down the Centauri Trail, but I’m told that a few of the chickens survived the trip.”

“Chickens will never go to the stars,” agreed Morton, quoting a popular joke. “Do you think that all the other systems are go?”

“Oh, absolutely. And out at Diomedes, the prototype has successfully converted itself from a nuclear-powered spaceship to a working space station. I just can’t tell you how pleased we are over at WISH.”

“How does the NRDC see it, Captain Bauman?”

“There’s still a lot of work to be done, Morton, possibly requiring a major redesign. The two most serious problems are the biosphere and the neutron flux from the H-bomb drive.” Levine nodded, and consulted his briefing papers. “Take the neutron flux, first.”

“Of course. According to our dosimeters, the radiation in the crew quarters increased from a stable background of 0.125 standard cigarettes a day to about 1.5, a 1,200 percent increase”

“That’s a big percentage, but a couple of cigarettes a day isn’t all that much, Captain Bauman.”

“The prototype made a short trip, Mister Levine, 34 days. Going to a star would extrapolate to 200 to 300 cigarettes a day at the end of the acceleration, and another 200 to 300 cigarettes a day at the end of deceleration a century later. Not very healthy, I’d say.”

“Ten packs a day? I should say not. What about the biosphere?”

“The preliminary indications are that more work needs to be done, Mister Levine. Much more work.”

“What does WISH think about the biosphere, admiral?”

“There are problems, certainly. Especially if you insist on megafauna like chickens. But the solution isn’t all that complicated. Go with a water substrate to raise fish and shellfish.”

“You’d cut out meat and milk and eggs?”

“To go to the stars I’d eat fish. But milk we’ve got; the mechanical udder from Purdue University worked just fine, converting grass into milk. You want eggs, maybe caviar will do. Besides, installing a lot of aquariums would help with the neutron problem.”

Morton Levine raised his eyebrows. “Explain that for our audience, please.”

“The water would serve as neutron shielding, of course. What you end up with is tanks of water serving double duty as shielding and media for growth.”

“Wouldn’t the water get radioactive absorbing the neutrons?”

“Not especially,” Fontaine shook his head. “Mostly it would be hydrogen picking up a neutron to go to deuterium—which is stable.”

“Do you think a redesign is called for, admiral?”

“A redesign, yes, based on what we learned from the prototype. Restudying the whole idea, as Captain Bauman wants to do? I would say not.”

“You don’t think the radioactivity is a serious problem?”

“A strong case can be made that the higher radiation Captain Bauman talks about is an artifact of the way it’s being measured, of particular placement of the dosimeters. The important thing is to remember that we have to take chances to get anywhere, we have to stick our necks out.”

“What about the biosphere, Captain Bauman?”

“We need to know a whole lot more than we do, certainly. I understand that the bees survived by putting the hives in a refrigerator, so that they stayed in hibernation for the thirty-four day trip. That wouldn’t work on a real trip.”

“What about the biosphere, Admiral Fontaine?”

“There may be problems with the livestock,” Fontaine conceded. “My suggestion to go with fish tanks was quite serious. I always did enjoy seafood, in spite of being raised Catholic.” The admiral sat back in his chair and looked pensive. “An aquatic regimen has always been an option for the biosphere.”

“We need to wrap this up, I’m afraid. Captain Bauman, what do you think the next step for the starship ought to be?”

“They need to go back to the drawing board for a complete rethinking and redesign. Yes, we made it to Diomedes, but that proves absolutely nothing.”

“Admiral Fontaine?”

“Very little redesign is needed, Morton. Make the ship a little longer, a little narrower, maybe. Add a little more shielding, especially if it can do double duty.And that’s about it.”

“Thank you for being here, both of you. Our next story concerns an intelligence analyst, Mister Julien Ying who now is going public with the news that he made up facts to suit his bosses. Mister Julien Ying.” Ying was Chinese, conservatively dressed in a dark blue three-piece suit with a yellow power tie.

“How do you do, Mister Levine.”

“So far, so good Julien. I understand that you were an analyst for the Defense Intelligence Agency?”

“That is correct, Mister Levine. For fifteen years.”

“And your specialty?”

“I prepared estimates of the inventory of nuclear weapons for different nations. We used technical means and human resources, and most often they would be in close agreement.

“And what happened?”

“Well, ten years ago I had the India desk. At that time my supervisor requested a high estimate.”

“Your supervisor told you what to find?”

“Not exactly, Mister Levine. Only he wanted a higher number than what I provided. Not once, but repeatedly; not marginally higher, but much higher.”

Levine’s eyebrows went up. “How come?”

“I asked the same question. Once I understood that his supervisor wanted to please the joint chiefs of staff, I, of course, furnished him an appropriate number.”

“And what number was that?”

“I said that India had 40,000 warheads.”

“And how many did they have, really, Mister Ying?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps 200, perhaps as many as 300, if they chose to fabricate mostly tactical weapons. The real number is almost certainly smaller than 200.”

“Isn’t this top secret?”

Ying looked inscrutably at the camera, “Only the document has been classified top secret. The information which that document purports to contain is, in fact, wholly fictional.”

“My goodness. Are you telling us that you made it up out of the whole cloth?”

“That is correct, Mister Levine. I arrived at the number arbitrarily, well, not quite arbitrarily. My supervisor hinted at the number he would like for his boss, and I guessed at what would make them happy.”

“How could you justify such a monstrous deception?”

“Once the number was in hand, I worked backwards and contrived a supporting basis for it by falsifying technical intelligence reports.” A wry smile. “We cannot discuss the numbers involved, of course. Revelation of such fine detail might reveal the inner workings of our military intelligence.”

Morton Levine sat back, completely flabbergasted. “My God,” he said at last. “You were playing games with the national security?”

“Sometimes the lies people tell reveal more about them than the truth one might be seeking,” replied Ying, blowing smoke without tobacco. “But in any event, India has never adopted a threatening posture towards us, so there have not yet been any unintended adverse consequences.”

“But why did the joint chiefs want a high estimate?”

Ying smiled politely. “Ask them, please. I could only offer ignorant speculation.”

“Well, maybe we’ll get around to it, then.Tell me this: How is that you are now breaking this story?”

Julien Ying gazed at the camera beneficently, his inscrutable Oriental face a finger raised at his host. “For the good of my country, of course.”

Lunar Three spun serenely on its axis, the inner tube racing against the more slowly turning casing, as the whole assembly went coursing sedately in its orbit around Luna, exactly as if nothing were wrong. “What did you find about the neutron leak?” asked Turi John Ramos fretfully. “That stupid radiation the NRDA was so exercised about.”

The engineer looked bored and called up the file on his workstation. “It is an artifact,” he said. “Look. Here is the prototype in profile.The bomb explodes; the neutron burst passes through the length of the ship before the recoil even begins. Now look at the cross-section of the ship; we take one module at a time, in shades of grey showing neutron shielding. The circular image grew darker and darker as successive modules were added. What do you see?”

“Three little light spots, otherwise it looks pretty much black.”

“Very good, Doctor Ramos. Now what do you see when we place the dosimeters—the little red crosses—in the crew module?”

“The dosimeters are placed exactly in the middle of the least shielded areas?” exclaimedTuri John.

“Amazingly, that appears to be the case,” agreed the engineer. “So there is really no problem with neutron contamination or radiation leakage.” He paused a beat. “At least no technical problem.”

Dr. Ramos missed the inference completely. “Good, good. What about the redesign?”

A shrug. “We re still working on it, chief. My guess is that we can reduce the unloaded mass by maybe 10 percent. More if you reduce the biosphere.”

“You people have no sense of urgency,” protested Turi John. “We need to get construction started the day before yesterday!”

“Oh?” A pause, as the engineer called up the PERT chart and studied it for clues. “We can start on the reaction chamber, at any rate. Our modifications there were pretty simple-minded.”

Turi John nodded. “What about the rest of the starship?”

“Come on. Building the reaction chamber will take enough time so that we can finish the redesign on the recoil system. You don’t want the recoil system screwed up, do you?”

Fish got to swim, engineers got to fiddle with the damn design, thought Turi John. “I remember the rule,” he said at last, “Anything you want done will take longer, cost more, and make a bigger mess than you ever thought possible.”

“Yes, indeedy,” agreed the engineer cheerfully. “That’s the rule, all right. Are you so sure you want to make a rush job out of building the starship?”

“Hunh. My charter is I can do anything except spend money without permission. Well, get started on the reaction chamber, then, and see what can be done about the recoil system.”

“We’ll do that, chief. What about the biosphere?”

The biosphere had been the subject of an ongoing series of discussions. “It looks like one hundred people will be too many. Scale it back.”

“We figured on seventy-five as about optimum, chief.”

“So go with seventy-five, then.”

“Yes sir. How are you going to feed them?”

A sigh. “It’ll have to be aquatic, mostly. Which means fish tanks. Design them to hold…” Turi John hesitated. “As long as we’re wishing, we might as well go for what we really, truly want. Let’s call for the basic garden, plus 1,200 tons of water in assorted tanks.”

“All ri-ight! Uh, how are we ever going to get our hands on 1,200 tons of water, chief?”

“The old joke was: If God wanted us to go to the stars, He’d have given us the money. All we need is a little water.”

Five astronomical units distant, the staff of Diomedes Station considered the problem, first on the one hand, then on the other. “We can send the ship’s boat off by remote control,” said Levsky, doubtfully. “With 1,200 tons of water, uh, I mean ice, it would arrive at Lunar Three in about four months.”

“That will be fine for them,” Winslow replied. “But how will we get home, then?”

The question: “Can we build another boat?” evoked a variety of responses, and a lot of computer work. The tentative answer: yes, but it would take a long time.”

“Look,” said Dr. Kerry. “We wanted to go to the stars. We still want to go to the stars. But you’ve got to figure that if we send off the ship’s boat, we aren’t going home.”

“We could go home, we could? Winslow studied his computer for a moment. “Only at the end of seven or eight years, instead of maybe three.”

“Or maybe ten or eleven? Or fifteen? No. Sioux is right. We aren’t going to go home without the ship’s boat. The starship isn’t going to leave without the water we could send them.”

“Earth could send up the water.”

“It could, but I’m afraid it won’t,” Colonel Levsky shook his head. “Earth is having serious second thoughts about the whole affair. The NRDA is claiming that it has authority over the design and planning process, and wants Lunar Three to shut up and shut down.”

“What’s Turi John doing at Lunar Three?”

“The fool is pushing ahead,” replied Winslow. “CAD is too widespread for the NRDA to claim a monopoly on the design process, so Doctor Ramos is building the starship in defiance of orders.”

“The design Turi John wound up with is pretty damn good,” said Madeline Tosca. “Once they get our water, all the starship will need to get under way is that great shitload of hydrogen bombs from Earth.”

Colonel Levsky looked morose. “My brave comrades in the military will hate to give up the power, the authority which that plutonium represents, but I think they would have no choice.” He paused, “But.”

“But if we send the boat off, you want to know what will happen to us here, Pavel Ivanovitch?”

“That’s right, Sioux. How are we doing? Maybe more to the point, how will we be doing in the future?”

She sat back in her chair and considered the question. “I don’t know how we—the crew—are doing, but the biosphere is doing very well indeed. How are the various construction projects going, Winslow?”

“Diomedes Electric is up and running,” he said. “So we have plenty of power. We could expand it to take the nuclear reactor off-line if you wanted.”

“I thought it was off-line?”

Winslow shrugged. “We’re using it for mining and refining,” he said. “Currently, we’ve got the biosphere running entirely on solar.”

“How about Diomedes Three?”

“Look out the damn window; we’re working on it. Right now we’re mining raw material and refining it into stuff. Like, we re spinning steel cable and processing aluminum into slurry. The templates and jigs are being cut in the shop, already, and we ought to get started assembling the tube and casing pretty soon, now. Then comes the rigging, of course.”

“And after the rigging is installed, Winslow, we install the air, water and soil for the biosphere?”

“And the germs and worms and compost, yes, yes, yes. All that organic shit!”

“Speak with respect of that shit, sir,” said Colonel Levsky. “It is your once and future dinner. How long, do you think, until you can walk around Diomedes Three in your shirtsleeves?”

“The target date, you mean? The Christmas after next.”

“About the time we’d be starting back for Earth,” said Dr. Kerry quietly. “Myself, I would be more inclined to move into Diomedes Three. The interesting part would have just begun.”

Madeline Tosca stood up, pumping her fist. “YE-ES! Let’s get the human race moving in the right direction, for once! I say we load the damn boat with water and send it back to Lunar Three!”

There was more discussion, but in the end that was what was done.

On Earth, the collection of fuel for the starship ran into difficulty as grossly optimistic estimates ran into an unyielding reality. In the highest circles of government, this difficulty provoked both consternation and a certain grim satisfaction.

“These promises are, of course, conditional,” said the secretary of state. “Promises made by sovereign nations can hardly be otherwise. Even if the nuclear devices we have identified were already in place on the starship, however, a problem would exist.”

“What is the problem?” asked the president, who already knew pretty much what it was.

“The problem, sir, is that the starship needs a fuel load of 300,000 hydrogen bombs,” replied the secretary of State. The CIA’s latest revised highest estimate is that if we collected all the bombs in the world, including all fissile materials suitable for making bombs, we could produce a total of 128,206 H-bombs.”

Less than half, thought the President, with a touch of regret. “What about the DLA? They thought the figure was more than 10 percent higher.”

“The DIA figure has been a joke since that fool went on TV and said he made up 40,000 H-Bombs for India.”

“Oh, him. What a mess, what a bloody mess.”

The secretary of state nodded. “Yes, sir. The Intelligence Community has been telling the men in power what they wanted to hear. When push came to shove, however, the crafty sons of bitches finally coughed up the real numbers.”

“Well, then, suppose we collect as much fuel as we can, and send the starship off as fast as its little legs will carry it. Does it make a difference if they don’t actually achieve 3 percent of the speed of light?”

“I’m afraid it does, sir,” the secretary of defense replied. “The NRDA assures me that the power system has been taxed to the limit to provide the 140 years of safe, reliable service that are required. Three whole centuries would be simply out of the question.”

“The idea was to get rid of all the damned plutonium,” the President said at last. “Isn’t the crew willing to take a chance 300 years down the line? My God, where is their patriotism?”

“The crew isn’t the problem, sir,” said the secretary of state. “The crew is keen to fly, and I’m sure they’d be willing to take their chances with the power system.”

“So what is the problem, then?”

“The problem is that any number of countries, including, I’m afraid, some members of our own congress, and even some members of this administration,” his eyes flicked over at the secretary of defense, “do not wish to give up owning nuclear weapons. Given this pretext—technical, yes, but political as well—the promises we have so laboriously collected are totally worthless.”

The president poured himself a glass of water and took a slow swallow. “You’re telling me that that the 99 percent complete starship orbiting Luna is a non-starter?”

“It can not be fueled for the trip to Alpha Centauri, sir,” replied the secretary of Defense. “Therefore, it isn’t going to go. Unless, of course, we are prepared to resume the massive production of nuclear weapons to support this harebrained scheme.”

“That’s hopeless,” sighed the president.

“Then if I may say so, Mister President, this is probably a good thing. Without the threat of nuclear weapons, we’d be facing another world war within a decade, and God knows, we couldn’t afford the buildup for a conventional war.”

“Neither can anyone else,” was the sour reply. “Given our cultural aversion to risk, we might lose if we even tried to fight one.” The president sighed again. “I really was looking forward to launching a starship during my term of office, you know.”

“I’m very sorry, Mister President,” remarked the secretary of defense. “It just isn’t going to happen.”

“So what are we going to do with the Dyson’s Dream II at this point?” asked the secretary of state.

“It’s a UN project,” said the president at last. “At least nominally. What we’ll do is tell the UN, and see if they can work something out.”

“What do you want them to work out?” asked the secretary of state.

It looks like the third wave into space has crested, thought the president sadly. “Whatever they can work out, of course. The diplomats can talk all they want, but I fear our starship is kaput.” He hesitated. “Keep that report top secret for now, all right? It’ll look better if it leaks from the UN.”

On Lunar Three the starship was going forward more smoothly than could have been hoped, and the boatload of water en route from Diomedes was taken as proof of Divine satisfaction. In the highest circle of government, however, news of the water from Diomedes waited on the pleasure of the next highest circle. And in the next highest circle of government, that boatload of water was the last straw.

The bedside phone rang, and the secretary of the Navy rolled over and picked it up. “De la Haye here,” he grunted.

“This is Juan Dominguez,” said the voice on the other end. “I was just talking with the Lunar desk over at the DIA.” A pause. “Were you asleep, Delay?”

Fitzgerald de la Haye glanced at the clock; 2:43 a.m. “Naah, I was having me a little insomnia,” he lied. “Whut the hay-ull have you got this time Juan?”

“Personal intelligence from Luna Base, old buddy. Our source up there passed on some information he felt was what we like to call ‘speculative.’ The guy on Lunar desk went and used technical sources to get essential confirmation.”

Oh? The old brain started clicking away. Anything hot from the Moon didn’t look to be real good at this point. “Ah thought we had those fellas tied down, Juan.”

“Es verdad, Delay. The starship can’t be launched without fuelling from Earth, otherwise, 300,000 hydrogen bombs. ’Sa whole point of the exercise.”

“Oh, that’s raht.” But if they were ready to launch except for the bombs, we’d have a hard time refusing to send them on up. So we kept them short of… of water. “Ah’m in the picture, ah guess. What sort of information did your source come up with?”

“What got passed on was that the crew of the prototype starship is using their ship’s boat to send 1,200 tons of water for the starship being built on Lunar Three.”

Oh, shit. The starship people had been after us to send up 50 tons of liquid hydrogen so they could burn it to 450 tons of water with lunar oxygen. And we, of course, have been putting them off because we don’t want to give up our nukes. “And y’all confirmed this?”

“Some of it, Delay.Technical sources confirm that the ship’s boat has been launched, and that Diomedes Station is powering it as the thing heads for the inner Solar System.”

How long before that damn cargo of water gets to the Moon? Taking the crew back, the ship’s boat would have been in transit maybe four or five months, something like that. Find out. Find out soonest? Soonest figures to be morning, after the people get to work. “You did the raht thing,Juan, old buddy. Thanks for the call, and fax your report to my office, will you?” de la Haye slid his feet into carpet slippers, and put on his blue bathrobe. Now what?

He shuffled down to the kitchen and nuked a cup of water in the microwave, stirring instant coffee and sweetener into the boiling water. “Hay-ull,” he muttered. The NRDA had tried to get the construction to stop while they ran the design through their big old CAD machines. What happened? Volunteer machines came out of the woodwork. Goddamn Japs. So the design work on the starship, including all the stuff learned off of the damn prototype, that had been done. Try to argue “we can do it better” and they asked “how?” Try to argue the damn details, the dirty bastards made you look like idiots.

So they were doing the construction work, already, without so much as a by your leave. De la Haye studied the cup of coffee steaming in front of him. The starship, what did they call it, The Dyson s Sphere II? The sucker had a whole lot of popular support. Which meant the president wasn’t real happy when they got out in front to slow down the wheels of progress. Which meant the cockamamie thing was tee-totally out of control.

Except for the bombs, there was nothing more that Earth needed to send up. Except for a few odds and ends of equipment, and, of course, the 50 tons of hydrogen to make water for the biosphere. Except for the bombs? Once the word got out that the starship was ready to go, the Navy would have to give them up.

He took a sip of hot coffee. “Hay-ull,” he said again. Probably the starship would be ready to go about the time the water arrived from Diomedes Station. Then there would be all this drumroll of publicity about the biosphere being ready, and selecting the crew and all that. When was the last time they could be stopped?

De la Haye took another sip of coffee. Probably the last time the starship could be stopped would be before word of that 1,200 tons of water leaked out. Which could be any old time. All the Luna Base people had to do was hold a press conference. Which meant that the Navy had to move fast, real, real fast. He picked up the phone and called up the list of emergency numbers, watching them scroll by the little screen in the handle. His immediate boss, the secretary of the defense, was useless, but down the line his deputy assistant was Daniel Boyce Kelly, and it was Kelly’s number that he punched.

“Danny Boy? Good.This is de la Haye.” A pause. “Yes I know what time it is. And yes, it is that important. I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t that important.” There was another pause. “Well, if you want to keep the Armed Forces nuclear it’s important, anyway.” De la Haye sighed and covered a yawn. “Well, no, not exactly. First I need to tell you what the problem is, Danny Boy. Just you listen up to what 1 have to lay on you, and maybe we can find a way out of this jackpot.”

CHAPTER 5

That Nips The Root

The rotund and red-cheeked MacArthur looked concemed. “Tonight’s lead story on the ‘MacArthur-Levine News Hour’ is the confrontation that has blown up over the American attempt to rotate our personnel at Lunar Three. Our guests tonight are Admiral Henry Fontaine of the Washington Institute of Space Habitation and the secretary of the Navy, Fitzgerald de la Haye. We’ll go with you, first, Mister Secretary. What happened, sir?”

What a mess, what a mess, thought de la Haye. What had Kelly told him: “Tell the truth and shame the devil?”

Easy for him to say, his ass wasn’t on the line. “We decided to make some changes in the staffing of the starship, is all. Nothing major, just benching some people back to Earth and sending in the second team.”

“You sent up the entire American section of the High Skies Fleet just to change a few people? Sir, for some time now we have been told that those ships were inoperable; that they couldn’t fly to carry needed supplies into orbit.”

This is not going well, not going well at all. “Well, Mac, our ground crews finally got them working, and we figured, well, we figured we wanted some team players working on the starship.” A sigh. That football analogy was just plain stupid, de la Haye decided, no way in hell would anyone buy Turi John as a quarterback not taking orders from the bench. “The fact is,” he said at last, “Doctor Ramos up there on Lunar Three was completely out of control. We gave orders; he ignored them. We asked to review plans; he sent us new plans, supposedly incorporating our objections.”

MacArthur nodded and looked directly into the camera. “Why then did your people up there go along with him?”

Under stress, Haye s accent began to thicken. “Foah one thang, that man is charismatic as hay-ull, sort of like a cult leader. Foah anothuh ouah people up there really, really want to see that starship launched, they-all want to see it launched so bad that they have become a cult, soht of. If’n that man Ramos tells them the orders we send up is trying to delay the stahship, they bee-lieve the tacky sonofabitch an’ do what he tells ’em to do an’ not what we tell ’em needs to be done.”

“You had a mutiny?”

The word was a dash of cold water. Counsel had handed him his head over using the term “mutiny.” “Wa-all, not exactly.” What were the weasel words they used? “What we had was more like a flaming outburst of zeal fueled by excess enthusiasm. This enthusiasm led Doctor Ramos and his people to—uh—to overstep their authority. We all going up there to restore the authority that rightfully belongs to the people of these United States.”

“By substituting Naval personnel for the American citizens which our government assigned to the UN? Didn’t the UN complain about this usurpation of authority?”

I think Ah may have blown it, Haye decided. Well, too frigging bad. “One question at a time, Mac. No, the UN did not complain. What-all we are doing is changing one set of people assigned to the UN for another set. Also assigned to the UN.”

“How come you didn’t tell anybody? The starship is a UN project, isn’t it?”

De la Haye nodded impassively. There hadn’t been time to tell anybody, but if you say that, the sonofabitch will want to know what the hurry was. “Why, yes, of course the starship is a UN project.”

“Right. Why didn’t you tell people you were going up?”

As Lady Macbeth said: “If t’were done, t’were best done quickly.” But I can’t tell him that. “Ah regret the failure of communications that seems to have taken place heah, Mister MacArthur.”

“Hmm. Yes,of course. Why are the other nations so exercised about all this?”

“I swear Ah don’t know, Mac. Maybe over at state they’ll be bettuh informed. What-all 1 read in the papers is that they seem afraid their civilians can’t work with ouah military, and that, of cou’se, is ridiculous.”

“Admiral Fontaine, why do you think the other nations are so exercised?”

“Look at what was done, sir,” was the cool reply. “We went and replaced the American civilians up there with American military. How did we do it? Secretly. Suddenly. Unilaterally. We are currently in de facto control of Luna Base, Lunar Station, Lunar Electric, and all of Lunar Three that we want.”

“But wasn’t the base mostly manned by Americans?”

“No, of course not. We paid about a third of the bills, we supplied about a third of the personnel—civilians, mostly, detailed to the UN.”

“Wasn’t the UN Command merely a fiction, admiral? A pretext to let the great powers do what they wanted in space?”

“Yes, yes, Mister MacArthur, the UN Command was a fiction. But it was a fiction agreed to by the great powers.” Fontaine sat forward and glared at the camera. “What happened to the UN command up there? We brushed it aside like it was nothing. Who gets upset? Not the UN, but the other great powers the UN was fronting for.”

“But what are they upset about?”

“The militarization of space. It looked like we were engaged in building a starship, to which we would commit the world’s arsenal of hydrogen bombs. After this, nobody is going to hand over their bombs no matter what we tell them.” Fontaine shook his head. “Not to the US military.”

The fat man looked pained. “But why not?”

“Good God, sir! We have just demonstrated that the US flat-out can’t be trusted, and you ask me why nobody will trust us?”

There was an inaudible remark offstage. “What’s that?” asked MacArthur, turning to the right.

The camera panned to the wings, showing Morton Levine holding a jaggedly torn fax. “We have a report that Turi John Ramos was murdered while in US custody,” he said, walking onto the sound stage. “Mister Secretary, do you have anything to say about this shocking abuse of military power?”

De la Haye blotted his perspiration-bespangled brow with a trembling hand. Running would be the end, an admission of guilt. But what to say? When in doubt blow smoke. “In the first place, if these very serious allegations should possibly prove true, Ah have heard nothing, nothing about any casualties on either side. In the second place, Ah expect that boy might have been depressed the way things were turning out, he being a such a flaming fanatic on the subject of starships, an’ if Turi John should, in fact, be dead, it might well have been bah his own hand. In the third place….”

The secretary of the Navy was saved by sheer, dumb luck. The career-destroying Turi John Ramos murder/suicide controversy vanished into thin air as the show’s producer walked onstage with a second fax message, which he handed to Morton Levine.

“The Russian squadron of the High Skies Fleet has gone into low polar orbit,” Morton read.Then he looked into the camera with wide, wide eyes, pancake makeup blotchy on his suddenly pale face. “If they are armed, they have taken up the classical attack posture!”

Diomedes Station watched the unfolding drama with all the detachment afforded by half a billion miles distance. The manner in which the drama was unfolded unto them was this: Earth routinely beamed twenty-six channels to Lunar Station; of those twenty-six channels, Diomedes could select any four, which were then relayed to Lunar Electric and beamed to Diomedes. Since it took ninety minutes for a channel change to take effect, channel browsing was rather less spontaneous than on Earth, or even Luna.

“Stupid summit meeting,” said Winslow, coming into the lounge. “What good will that do?”

“It might stop a few billion people from getting blown up,” replied Dr. Kerry. “Including, of course, the summiteers.You’re just in time to hear the commentators tell you what the official communique already told you.” They sat and watched, sifting through the redundancy and banality of the four TV channels available to them, like miners panning for gold.

“It looks like they got themselves off the hook,” said Winslow at last.

“Hook, indeed,” said Madeline Tosca. “What this reminds me of is professional wrestling. A lot of face making and screaming in agony as they follow the script.”

“What script? What do you think is happening?”

“Oh come on, Sioux, it is so obvious. Look at the deal they cut: Everybody leaves Luna Base and Lunar Three. Then the Russians explode their nukes—the ones carried by the Deep Space Fleet—in the vicinity of Lunar Three. On the far side of the starship, where the US can count them and verify their destruction, of course. Then everybody left on Lunar Station is evacuated. In the process the starship gets seriously trashed, and the Lunar complex will be well and truly gutted.”

“Gutted?” asked Winslow. “They said they were taking care to do no harm to the physical structure of the Lunar bases.”

“Right,” said Tosca. “At least, that’s what the lying sons of bitches went and told us. In the meantime, who benefits from all this play acting?”

“Well, a few billion people get a reprieve from nuclear annihilation,” Dr. Kerry replied. “That has to count for something.”

“Su-ure it does. And in the process the starship project gets knocked in the head.” Madeline Tosca looked mournful, like Medea about to kill her children. “So the boys in the military get to keep their atomic toys.”

“You think the whole thing was the military trying to keep their nuclear weapons?” asked Winslow.

“Well of course it was, dear man. Look at how the crisis started, how it developed.”

“How did it start?”

Tosca sighed. “The US abruptly deployed their squadron of the High Skies Fleet to correct what they described as an “intolerable situation” on Luna Three. Turi John Ramos was, all of a sudden, an out of control berserker.”

“Oh, come on! Turi John was always a loose cannon. They put the man on Lunar Three to keep him out of trouble.”

“Yes, yes, Doctor Kerry. Only something happened. From the timing, I’d guess that our shipment of water might have been what tossed the match into the fireworks factory.”

“That might have been the hidden why,” agreed Colonel Levsky. “How about the stupid what?”

“Things were driven by unauthorized military actions on both sides, and then the politicians running around like chickens with their heads cut off, trying to play catch-up. What did they end up doing?”

“What the military wanted?”

“Very good, Pavel Ivanovitch. That’s exactly what they ended up doing. Depend on it, if the disarmament people try to start up the starship program again, it will be found that awful things have happened to the Lunar infrastructure when nobody was looking.”

“What’s the chances of launching the starship from here, then?” asked Colonel Levsky.

“Small and none,” said Winslow. “It ain’t going to happen.”

“We couldn’t make ourselves a reactor and separate out the Pu-239?”

“Oh, we could make the fuel, I suppose, Pavel Ivanovitch, but it would be a full time job for more people than we have available.”

“I’m not even sure we could make the fuel,” added Dr. Kerry. “At least not in the quantity needed for a trip to the stars. Right now we’re in good shape to survive, but that’ll be a full time job for the foreseeable future.”

Madeline Tosca nodded her agreement. “We could—no, the fuel could be made, eventually. But we wouldn’t be making it. It would be our children, or grandchildren.”

“You know, I really hate to give up on the starship,” said Colonel Levsky at last. “Isn’t there some way we could entice poor old Earth to look towards the stars again?”

Sioux Kerry nodded. “It has to be worth thinking about,” she conceded. “If anybody comes up with anything, we surely ought to give it our best shot.”

Time passed, and the drone cargo ship with 1,200 tons of water approached perihelion under remote control from Diomedes Station. The mass drivers, powered by the photovoltaic panels on the ship were entirely sufficient to bring the ship to rest with respect to the abandoned Lunar Three, a fact that did not go unnoticed on Earth.

On the “MacArthur/Levine News Hour,” Morton Levine looked impassively into the camera as the disclaimer that this interview had been scripted to accommodate the long time lag between questions scrolled across the bottom of the screen. “After several months, the starship was once again back in the news this evening as a drone cargo ship out of Diomedes Station matched velocities with Lunar Three where the hulk of the Dyson’s Dream remains docked. We now bring you a newsmaker interview with Professor Madeline Tosca, from Diomedes Station. Professor Tosca, what cargo is that drone of yours carrying?”

“Water in the form of ice, Mister Levine, twelve hundred tons of it,” said the extremely photogenic Madeline Tosca. “And you may call me Madeline.”

“Thank you, Madeline, and you may call me Morton if you would like. You people out at Diomedes Station aren’t exactly having an easy time of it. Why did you try to help us out with that shipment of water?”

“Well, Morton, you have to remember that all of us here are very much interested in the possibility of going to the stars. When we dispatched our ship’s boat, we thought the water it carried was going to help get the starship off to a good start.”

“Not an unreasonable assumption, but in any event it didn’t happen. How do you feel about there being nobody on Luna to take delivery?”

“Chagrined. Upset.” Madeline Tosca laughed, belying her words. “But after you think about it a little, it’s kind of funny.”

Levine looked sternly into the camera. “Be serious.That ship’s boat was your way home. How can being stuck out in the asteroids be funny?”

“We aren’t stuck. You are the ones who are stuck, stuck on Earth with all those nuclear weapons.”

Her host nodded in pained agreement. “Eh, well, I’ll admit they gave us a few bad moments back there. But how do you figure that you aren’t up the creek without a paddle, if I may muddle a metaphor?”

“We could build another boat eventually, Morton. It would take us awhile, is all. The thing is, right now we’re busy building other stuff.” She smiled, showing her strong white teeth. “Go on, ask me what we’re building.”

“What are you building?”

“I’m glad you asked. We’ve enlarged Diomedes Electric, and scrapped the plans for Diomedes Three.”

“I assume that you have something in mind as a replacement?”

“Oh, yes, Morton. This is a shot of the model of the new Turi John Ramos Station, which is set beside a model of Lunar Three for comparison.” The camera panned around both models, showing them from different angles. Both were tube and casing structures, but the TJR Station was much larger.

“Are they done to the same scale, Madeline?”

“Yes, of course. The other big difference is that the TJR Station will have all the water it can use. The TJR biosphere could easily support three or four thousand people. Lunar Three was laboring to support two-hundred.”

“To put that in context for our viewers, your crew is only 113 people, with no additions any time soon—” Madeline Tosca interrupted him.

“No additions is simply mistaken, Morton. Doctor Sioux Kerry and Colonel Pavel Ivanovitch Levsky are expecting a baby in a few months, so they got married.” A pause. “I phrased that lousily, but they aren’t the only ones, either.”

“Well, good luck and congratulations to all concerned, I suppose. How long before the TJR Station is completed?”

“We were originally supposed to be coming home by next Christmas,” she said, considering the question. “This, this is pretty ambitious. It will take at least another couple of years to complete the tube and the casing, and I don’t know how long the rigging will take. TJR Station won’t really be complete until the biosphere is supporting a shirtsleeves environment. Four, maybe five years, at a guess.”

“Well, at least you seem to be enjoying your work. Then will you build a boat to come home on?”

“You weren’t listening, Morton. Right now, Diomedes Station is home, in spite of everything. TJR Station also looks to be shaping up as home; you work on building something like that, you do form an attachment to it.”

Levine nodded. “Yes, yes, I concede the point. I could never sell that summer cottage I built, even though it came in a kit. But what are you all going to do once the TJR Station is finished and done with?”

“That,” she said with her most dazzling smile, “will depend on what needs to be done, won’t it, Morton?”

“We re almost out of time here, Madeline, but tell me, what do you think will need to be done?”

“Get work started on the starship, again. What else?”

“Hopeless, Madeline, utterly hopeless. As the man said: ‘Starships is dead.’ What makes you think you can resurrect them?”

“Mysticism, Morton. As the voice of God said: ‘If you build it, they will come.’ ”

One of the advantages of a long time delay is that it gives you a chance to do research. “That was the Kevin Costner movie, Field Of Dreams,” he said easily. “But how does baseball connect with building a starship?”

“Different dreams for different people, of course.”

Levine looked doubtful. “Maybe you know what you’re doing, but what if all those people don’t share your dream? What if they don’t show up?”

“They’ll show,” said Madeline Tosca calmly. “I have faith in my dream and faith in my people. They will show.”

“Eventually,” he agreed, nodding. “But not right now. We’ve run out of time, Madeline. Thank you for joining us.”

She smiled, and her eyes twinkled. “No, Morton, I think you mean: ‘Thank you for not joining us.’ ”

Content

The Third Wave
by Alexis A. Gilliland

CHAPTER 1 First Comes The Seed

CHAPTER 2 The Planting

CHAPTER 3 And The Shoot

CHAPTER 4 Then Comes The Frost

CHAPTER 5 That Nips The Root