Mars, Inc. - eARC

by Ben Bova

  “What’s so special ‘bout Mars?” Maggie asked, her baby blue eyes intent.

  “Lots of things,” said Thrasher. “It may have harbored life once. There might even still be some form of life there, maybe deep underground. It’s another world; we have a lot to learn from it.”

  “How’re you goin’ to make money out of it?”

  “I’m not. None of us are. We’re doing it because it’s the right thing to do.”

  Maggie Watkins shook her head slowly. “Hard to raise money fo’ that.”

  “I don’t know about that. I think the Kahn brothers will come in on it. Will Portal’s in, for sure. Bartlett. Gelson. If you join the club we’ll be more than halfway there.”

  “A billion a year? For five years?”

  “You can afford it.”

  “Well sure, I can afford it. But why would I want to?”

  Thrasher looked around at the replica of the Oval Office. Hard decisions were made here, he knew. Dropping the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. Standing up to Stalin’s aggressions. The Marshall Plan. Korea.

  He looked at the sign resting on Truman’s desk. The buck stops here.

  He thought, Damn! If Harry were President today we’d be going to Mars, and then some.

  Turning back to Maggie, he said, “We can leapfrog the Chinese and their Moon program. We can get America back into space in a major way. We can open the way to the whole damned Solar System, and then maybe go on to the stars. It’s the human race’s destiny, Maggie: to expand, to reach out, to explore. That what we do! That’s who we are!”

  She said nothing.

  Pointing to Truman’s desk and the sign upon it, Thrasher said, “It’s time to put up or shut up. If we don’t go to Mars this nation will be giving up its heritage and we’ll sink into insignificance. We’re a frontier people, Maggie! Your father understood that! He was always breaking new ground.”

  “An’ making money out of it.”

  “So now you’ve got more money than you know what to do with. Do something big! Do something significant. Put up or shut up, for chrissakes!”

  Maggie broke into a low chuckle. “All right, Artie. All right. I’ll put up. Even if it’s only to make you shut up.”

  9

  SPACEPORT AMERICA,

  NEW MEXICO

  The governor of New Mexico was perspiring. Thrasher could see sweat beading his broad forehead and upper lip. He was a stocky Hispanic, built like a sack of cement. Even in his light gray summerweight suit, he was obviously uncomfortable. But as long as the TV news cameras were on him, the governor beamed a big telegenic smile while he stood beside Thrasher and his other guest at the VIP stands overlooking the rocket launch pad.

  It was a bright desert afternoon, with the Sun blazing in a cloudless sky of turquoise blue. Hot. Dry, baking oven hot. Thrasher could feel trickles of perspiration sliding down his own ribs, beneath his short-sleeved shirt.

  The viewing stands were more than half empty, despite the governor’s presence. Launching rockets from the New Mexico desert had become almost commonplace.

  “Five minutes and counting,” boomed the loudspeakers on either end of the benches.

  The camera crew started to shift their attention to the tall, slim rocket standing on the pad, but the TV reporter—a determined-looking young woman with perfectly-coiffed auburn hair and the buxom figure of a temptress—stayed with the governor and his two guests.

  The other guest was Elton Schroeder. It was his rocket standing on the launch pad, a thin wisp of vapor leaking from halfway up its length. The vapor dissipated in the dry New Mexico air almost immediately. A slim gantry tower stood next to the rocket, holding hoses that connected to the rocket’s base and upper stage. Thrasher could see a handful of technicians in white coveralls climbing down from the launch platform and heading for a trio of SUVs parked nearby.

  With his smile still in place on his beefy face, the governor began to lecture Thrasher, “It’s a two-stage rocket, you know. The first stage is jettisoned as soon as its rocket engines run out of fuel. Parachutes bring it down to a soft landing.”

  “Here at the spaceport?” Thrasher asked.

  Waggling one hand, the governor replied, “Well, within the confines of the White Sands range.”

  Schroeder spoke up, in a strangely harsh, rasping voice, “We retrieve the stage for reuse.”

  Pointing to the bird on the launch pad, Thrasher asked, “How many times has that one been reused?”

  Schroeder thought for a moment, then answered, “This is the fourth flight for that one.”

  “Four minutes and counting.”

  Schroeder was trying to look like a cowboy, Thrasher thought. He had the craggy, weathered face for it, but his clothes looked like Brooks Brothers, or at least L. L. Bean. He was wearing brand-new, sharply creased chinos, a monogrammed white-on-white shirt, unbuttoned leather vest and hand-tooled boots. His lean face bore two days’ stubble, yet his hair was so light he almost looked like an albino. His eyes were deeply brown, though, almost black, probing. He had hardly spoken a word since the governor introduced him to Thrasher, and he conspicuously avoided the television news crew.

  Thrasher noted that Schroeder put his hands behind his back and crossed his fingers. He started to say something about it, but caught himself in time. Don’t make fun of a man’s superstitions, he told himself. He’s got forty million bucks riding on this launch, he’s entitled to a quirk or two. Hell, he probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

  Instead, Thrasher said to the governor, “This is a magnificent thing you’ve done here. A private spaceport.”

  “It’s owned by the State of New Mexico,” the governor said, with pride in his voice.

  “Plus a consortium of private investors,” Schroeder added. His strained voice was almost painful to the ears.

  The governor nodded. “Virgin Galactic, SpaceX, your own company, Mr. Schroeder . . .”

  “Is it a profitable operation?” Thrasher asked.

  “Oh yes,” the governor replied quickly. Thrasher saw that Schroeder suddenly looked uncomfortable. If this place is making a profit, Thrasher surmised, it isn’t much. Not enough to make Schroeder happy.

  The minutes ticked by. Thrasher wished they were inside the sweeping modernistic air-conditioned operations building, instead of baking out here in the sun. The buxom reporter had moved to stand next to him, close enough for him to catch a hint of her perfume. His nose twitched. Musk. The damned stuff always made him sneeze.

  “I didn’t get your name,” he said to the woman. She was really quite pretty beneath her makeup, he thought. Curly auburn hair clipped short. Big baby-blue eyes. The blouse she wore showed just enough cleavage to be interesting.

  “Victoria Zane,” she said, smiling at him.

  Thrasher nodded and turned his attention back to the activities at the base of the rocket. The SUVs were backing away and heading for the operations building, spouting roostertails of dust behind them.

  Schroeder, his hands still behind his back, rasped tightly, “They’ll be going into the automated sequence now.”

  “One minute and counting,” blared the loudspeakers.

  He glanced at the reporter. Her eyes were riveted on the rocket and she seemed to be holding her breath. Too bad, Thrasher thought. She breathes so fetchingly. But he forced himself to keep his face impassive. This is no time for making a pass.

  “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

  The rocket seemed to be coming alive. Standing tall and alone against the turquoise sky, to Thrasher it seemed to quiver, to breathe, almost. The hoses from the gantry tower dropped away and the tower itself rolled back from the launch platform.

  “Three . . . two . . . one…”

  Christ, Thrasher thought to himself, this is like having sex! The tension building, building, and then the release. It’s like working up to an explosive orgasm.

  Flame blossomed at the base of the rocket and it shuddered, then began to rise, slowly,
ponderously, as if in no hurry to leave the ground.

  The sound came crashing in on them, an overpowering bellowing roar that rattled the bones and sucked the breath out of Thrasher’s lungs.

  The rocket was rising faster now: up, higher, faster, climbing into the bright sky.

  “Go, baby, go!” yelled the governor.

  Schroeder brought his hands to his chin, his fingers no longer crossed. The reporter was breathing again, Thrasher saw. Very visibly.

  The rocket dwindled into a blazing star, streaking upward. Then a flash of flame startled Thrasher.

  “First stage separation,” Schroeder said.

  “She’s on her way,” said the governor happily. “Another successful launch.”

  “Congratulations,” said Thrasher, sticking his hand out to Schroeder.

  Very seriously, Schroeder took Thrasher’s proffered hand in a firm grip. “Thanks.”

  “Let’s get inside,” said the governor. “I’ve had enough New Mexico sunshine for one afternoon.”

  Thrasher felt grateful.

  10

  LAS CRUCES

  Once inside the air-conditioned operations building, Schroeder led Thrasher, the governor, and Victoria Zane to a door marked:

  mission control

  authorized personnel only

  Schroeder pushed through the door and led the others into a small , windowless room filled with a dozen workstation consoles. Only four of them were occupied by technicians hunched over their keyboards, Bluetooth phones clipped to their ears. Three walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling display screens, all of them blank. Thrasher noticed a glassed-in visitor’s gallery running along the rear wall. Empty.

  A slim young woman in gray slacks and a white blouse that bore a Schroeder logo on its back stood behind the technicians. She turned when she heard the four visitors enter the room.

  Making a circle with her thumb and forefinger, she announced cheerily, “On the money, chief. Orbital insertion in eleven minutes.”

  “The first stage?” Schroeder asked.

  “Harry and his team are in the truck, on their way to pick it up.”

  Victoria Zane asked, “Could I get my camera crew in here for a few shots?”

  The governor started to reply, but Schroeder cut him off. “Not while they’re working. Later, after the payload’s linked up with the space station.”

  “How long will that be?”

  “A couple of hours.”

  She looked disappointed. “Maybe I can get the crew to hang around that long,” she said, more to herself than to Schroeder. “I’ll have to call the station.” She pulled a cell phone out of her handbag.

  “Not in here,” Schroeder snapped. “Outside.”

  Victoria nodded glumly and headed for the door. Thrasher thought, how extravagant, throwing away women like that. It was a line he remembered from an old movie.

  The governor clasped one hand each on Schroeder’s and Thrasher’s shoulders and said, “Why don’t you fellows let the people of New Mexico buy you lunch?”

  For the first time all day, Schroeder smiled. But it looked as if it hurt his face, Thrasher thought.

  The three men rode in the governor’s air-conditioned limousine to the Ramada Palms hotel, in downtown Las Cruces.

  “Finest eatery in the city,” the governor said, as a fawning hostess showed them to a table in the nearly empty restaurant. It was decorated to resemble an adobe hacienda in old Mexico.

  “We’re between the luncheon and dinner serving hours,” the hostess apologized, “but I’m sure whoever’s in the kitchen will be happy to make whatever you ask for, Your Honor.”

  As the governor settled his portly body onto the chair she held out for him, he said, “Just something to snack on. And drinks, of course.”

  Thrasher figured they wouldn’t have ginger beer, so he asked for a Diet Coke instead. Schroeder ordered a Coors Lite and the governor settled for a dirty Martini.

  As their drinks were being served, Schroeder asked Thrasher bluntly, “So are you looking for launch services or is this just a tourist trip for you?”

  Thrasher leaned back in his chair. “A little bit of both. I’ll be looking for launch services soon, but I think I’m going to need a bigger rocket booster than yours.”

  “Bigger?” the governor asked.

  Schroeder pointed out, “We’re launching three-man crews to the International Space Station.”

  Nodding, Thrasher replied, “I’ll be able to use that capability, but I’m also going to need a bird that can put ten, twelve tons into orbit.”

  “What on Earth for?” said the governor.

  “Nothing on Earth. It’s for Mars.”

  Schroeder’s eyes narrowed. “I heard you were putting together a consortium for a Mars mission.”

  “A crewed mission,” said Thrasher.

  “So you need a heavy-lift capability.”

  “My engineering guys tell me that’s the least expensive way to launch the components of the spacecraft.”

  “You’re going to assemble your Mars craft in orbit?”

  Thrasher nodded.

  “Have you done a cost analysis on using medium-lift boosters? Like mine?”

  “My number crunchers have. Looks like I’ll have to talk to Boeing. Their Delta IV can carry the load, I’m told.”

  It was Schroeder’s turn to nod.

  “You could still launch from here,” the governor said. Then he added hopefully, “Couldn’t you?”

  “Not from what my engineers tell me,” said Thrasher. “Unfortunately, the Delta IV’s first stage would fall back to Earth outside the confines of the White Sands range.”

  “Oh.”

  “Wouldn’t want it landing on this hotel.” Thrasher said it lightly, but both the others maintained a stony silence. He took a sip of his cola.

  “Then you’ll have to use the Kennedy launch complex out at Cape Canaveral,” said Schroeder. “Let the first stage plop into the ocean.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Isn’t there any way you could use Spaceport America?” The governor almost whined his question.

  Thrasher shrugged. “This is all preliminary, of course. Maybe, once I get my tech team fully staffed and running, they’ll come up with something better. I sure don’t want to have to lease a launch facility from the goddamned government.”

  Schroeder took a pull from his beer bottle, then said, “I’ve worked with the NASA guys at the Cape. They’re not so bad.”

  “I’m sure the technical guys are okay,” Thrasher replied. “It’s the bureaucrats they work for that bother me. And their lawyers.”

  “But you’ll launch your crew for the Mars mission from here?” the governor asked.

  “I’d like to. Unless Boeing and NASA make me a better deal.” Before either of the men could react, Thrasher added, “Which I doubt will happen.”

  The governor looked unhappy, Schroeder thoughtful.

  “For what it’s worth, we’ll have to launch people to assemble the spacecraft in orbit. Looks like there’ll be lots of launches.”

  “And you’ll have to bring those guys back, right?” asked Schroeder.

  “Right.”

  Sitting up straighter in his chair, Schroeder said, “We can do that for you. We’ve brought people home from the space station.”

  “Landed them right here,” the governor added, “on our own airfield.”

  Thrasher gave them a warm smile. “I’d really like to do business with you.”

  Schroeder nodded again. The governor said, “And we’d love to do business with you!”

  11

  BOARD MEETING

  Thrasher sat at the head of the conference room’s long, polished table while Sid Ornsteen droned through his treasurer’s report. Board meeting, Thrasher said to himself. It ought to be spelled b-o-r-e-d.

  The corporation had rented the conference room from the Marriott Residence Inn in downtown Houston. It was cheaper to rent the hotel fac
ility than to maintain a conference room in the corporate office suite that was only used four times a year.

  Ornsteen made no mention of the recent run-up on the corporation’s stock. Whoever had bought the shares was apparently content, for the moment. The stock’s price had settled back to where it had been before the run.

  Who would do that? Thrasher wondered. Why? It didn’t make sense.

  Looking down the long table at the assembled directors, he noted that every one of them was here for this meeting. That’s unusual. Last meeting half of them didn’t bother to show up. Is one of them behind the stock run? We’ll find when we get to new business, I suppose.

  White hair and bald pates. Q-Tips and bowling balls. Which one of you is trying to muscle me out of control?

  Thrasher turned slightly to glance at Linda, seated against the side wall, recording the proceedings. She looks tense, he thought. Probably she senses that something’s in the wind.

  The meeting dragged on. No problems, no arguments, no gasbags giving long-winded speeches to satisfy their egos.

  At last he was able to say, “Okay. The last item on the agenda is new business.” He made himself smile as he looked down the table again. “Anybody?”

  Nels Bartlett cleared his throat. “I’m not sure this falls under the heading of new business,” he began in his reedy, nasal voice, “but I think you should tell the board about your plans for a Mars mission. After all, you’ll probably want to sink a good deal of the corporation’s assets into this.”

  Heads nodded. Directors fidgeted in their chairs, waiting for a reply. Thrasher made himself smile. So it begins, he thought.

  “Yes, what about this Mars business?” asked one of the more prominent Q-Tips. “How will it affect the corporation?”

  “Positively,” said Thrasher.

  “I think you owe the board a more detailed explanation,” Bartlett said dryly.