Farside

by Ben Bova

  It wasn’t. One fine spring afternoon, as he worked alongside the student, inhaling her lovely perfume, the hydrogen exploded in a searing fireball that burned the student to death and destroyed both Uhlrich’s retinas.

  Stem cell therapy could rebuild his burned face but could not repair the completely destroyed retinas. Neurosurgeons made Uhlrich see, after a fashion, by rewiring his visual cortex so that it could be stimulated by the auditory and tactile centers of his brain.

  He saw through his ears and his fingertips. He was hailed as a living miracle of medical science. He returned to an almost normal life. The miracle was not perfect, of course: the images his visual cortex drew in his mind were not perfect reproductions of the people and things about him.

  But he did see that lovely young graduate student in his mind’s eye. Saw her afire, heard her screams, every time he closed his sightless eyes.

  Uhlrich exiled himself to the Moon. The newly independent lunar nation of Selene was starting a university and looking for top-flight people to fill its faculty. Through old associates (he had very few friends) Uhlrich received an invitation to head the astronomy department of the fledgling University of Selene.

  “We need good men like you, Professor,” said one of his former students, who now headed Selene University’s selection committee. “Dependable, reliable, the kind of man who can turn out top-notch students.”

  Thus Uhlrich traveled to the Moon, learned to live underground in the strangely light gravity, walked and talked and existed almost like a normal, sighted man, and tried to forget his previous life and sorrows.

  Then another of his former students, now a leading astronomer at the University of Arizona, discovered Sirius C, an Earth-sized planet orbiting a star that was less than nine light-years away, so close that the International Astronautical Authority launched a plan to get visual imagery of the world that the popular news media dubbed New Earth.

  Suddenly Uhlrich was seized by a frenzy. Selene was already constructing a radio telescope facility on the far side of the Moon. Why not build an optical interferometer that could image Sirius C—before the IAA’s grandiose plan for space-borne telescopes could be completed?

  Insisting that Selene could gain enormous prestige from the project, Uhlrich faced the lunar nation’s governing council in a white fury of ambition. They decided to study his proposal, which Uhlrich took as a polite way of refusing him. Just as when a father tells his importuning child, “We’ll see,” what he really means is no, but he doesn’t want to have an argument about it.

  Desperate, Uhlrich sought an audience with Douglas Stavenger, the retired leader of Selene, the man who had directed the community during its earliest years, who had led Selene’s brief, almost bloodless fight for independence, who had chosen the very name for the lunar nation.

  Stavenger, still Selene’s éminence grise despite his apparent youth, smiled at Uhlrich’s enthusiasm and agreed with him. Selene should be the first to obtain visual imagery of New Earth.

  Selene’s governing council agreed to support the project—minimally. Which led Uhlrich to seek additional funding from the McClintock Trust. He had not expected the scion of the McClintock clan would actually come to the Farside Observatory and interfere with his operation.

  But Uhlrich was determined to do whatever was necessary to make Farside Observatory succeed. His one chance for a Nobel Prize was at his fingertips.

  Almost.

  TELEOPERATIONS CENTER

  The room felt strangely crowded to Uhlrich, stuffy and hot, even though there were only three people in it.

  The professor had been informed that Grant Simpson had returned to Farside the morning after Uhlrich had ordered McClintock to bring him back. But when Uhlrich tried to reach Simpson on the phone, to discuss the engineer’s meeting with Dr. Cardenas, he received a recorded statement:

  “I’m unable to speak with you at the moment. Please leave your name and a brief message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  Unable to speak with me? Uhlrich fulminated. The nerve of the man!

  He asked the people monitoring the surveillance cameras that watched over every public space in the facility to locate Simpson. Within a minute they reported that Simpson was in the teleoperations center.

  For all of three minutes Uhlrich drummed his fingers on his desktop. Too busy to answer my call, is he? His first impulse was to go down to the teleoperations center and let Simpson know in no uncertain terms that when he’s called by the chief of the Farside Observatory, he’d better answer right then and there.

  But then he thought that it would be beneath him to go searching for one of his employees. Simpson should come to me; I’m his superior, he works for me. But I need him, the professor admitted to himself; he’s the only man around here who seems to be able to get things done. At any rate, Uhlrich felt safer in his own office, behind his own familiar desk. Why go traipsing through the corridors if you don’t have to? he asked himself. Why risk blundering into an embarrassing wrong turn?

  Finally, though, he decided to sacrifice his dignity a little and go to the teleoperations center. Show them that I can go anywhere I decide to go, he thought. That I’m not a prisoner of my own office. I want to talk with Simpson, I want to talk with him now. I’ll make him understand that when I call, he comes. Or else.

  He got up from his desk and started for the teleoperations center, his face set in a grim mask of determination, his fingers brushing along the wall of the corridor as he walked.

  But as he strode down the narrow rock-walled corridor his irritation eased somewhat. No sense making a scene, he told himself. Go to the teleoperations center as if you’re checking on how the work is going. A good leader looks in on his people from time to time. Talk to Simpson from a position of authority, not like a helpless blind man or an angry fishwife.

  So when he slid open the door to the teleoperations center, Uhlrich was quite composed and ready to speak to Simpson in a reasonable manner.

  For several heartbeats Uhlrich stood just inside the door, feeling tense and sweaty in the small, poorly ventilated room. He knew there were four consoles standing against the far wall. Simpson had to be at one of them.

  Then he heard Simpson’s voice: “Almost there, Josie.”

  Josie. Uhlrich mentally riffled through his personnel file: Josefina Rivera, one of the technicians. Hispanic American, age twenty-six, degrees in electronics and software engineering.

  Uhlrich coughed softly to get their attention. He sensed the woman turning to look over her shoulder at him. Simpson remained with his back to him.

  The woman half whispered, “Grant…”

  “Not now,” Simpson snapped.

  She lapsed into silence.

  Stiffening, Uhlrich called, “Mr. Simpson.”

  “Not now,” he repeated, louder.

  Uhlrich felt a blaze of anger surge through him.

  “He’s working one of the tractors,” Josefina Rivera explained. “Loading the last section of the mirror frame onto a flatbed.”

  “Almost finished,” Simpson called out, still without turning away from the screen.

  Seething, Uhlrich debated storming out of the room. But what would that accomplish? he asked himself. I’ve come this far, I’d look foolish if I left now.

  So he stood there, folding his arms across his chest, and waited as Simpson operated the tractor outside. From what Uhlrich could gather, the task of disassembling the mirror frame was almost completed. He pictured the doughty little tractor trundling around the perimeter of the mirror and taking the last remaining section of the frame in its metal grippers. Slowly, carefully, it was tugging the frame loose from the mirror, then lifting it and stowing it in the trailer with the rest of the disconnected sections.

  All in response to the motions Simpson made on the console’s joystick and dials. Uhlrich admitted to himself that none of his staff could work the teleoperations consoles as well as Simpson could.

  To the young
woman, Simpson said, “That’s the way it’s done, Josie. If Harvey had kept his butt in here and done the job right he wouldn’t have gotten himself hurt.”

  Uhlrich pictured the young woman’s face, outlined against the glow of the console’s screen.

  “Harvey can’t handle the controls the way you can, Grant,” she said, her voice brimming with admiration.

  “Then he ought to learn.”

  “Mr. Simpson,” Uhlrich called, steel in his voice.

  Simpson turned in his squeaking chair, then got slowly to his feet. “Professor,” he said, by way of acknowledgment. Nothing more.

  “I expected you to report to my office this morning,” said Uhlrich, “to tell me about your meeting with Dr. Cardenas.”

  Sounding almost embarrassed, Simpson said, “I filed a report last night, soon as I arrived back here. Didn’t you get it?”

  “I want a personal report,” Uhlrich snapped.

  “Oh.” A heartbeat’s hesitation, then Simpson said, “I thought it was important to get the mirror frame taken apart and get it ready for shipment over to Selene.”

  “That is important, yes,” Uhlrich conceded, “but your report to me should come first.”

  He sensed Simpson’s shoulders slumping slightly. “I thought my written report would do. And I wanted to get the frame off to Selene as soon as possible.”

  The woman said, “I’ll call the transportation people and schedule a lobber flight for the frame, Grant.”

  “Thanks, Josie,” Simpson replied.

  “Come with me,” said Uhlrich, reasserting his authority. “You can tell me about your meeting with Dr. Cardenas on the way back to my office.”

  “But there’s more to do here,” Simpson objected.

  “You can do it when you come back from my office,” Uhlrich insisted.

  “Yessir,” said Grant Simpson. Very reluctantly, Uhlrich thought.

  IN THE CORRIDOR

  “There’s not all that much to tell,” Simpson said as he walked alongside Uhlrich down the corridor.

  The professor knew from tactile representations of his staff’s personnel dossiers that Simpson was just about his own height. Much broader in the body, wide shoulders and a solid frame, but the man’s arms and legs were short and thick. They made him appear squat.

  “Dr. Cardenas is willing to help us?” Uhlrich asked.

  “Almost eager,” Simpson replied. “That’s why I wanted to get the mirror frame to her as soon as possible. She’s already analyzing samples of optical glass that Selene’s glass factory gave her.”

  “That’s good,” Uhlrich conceded. Then a new worry struck him. “But how is she to be paid for her work? We can’t afford a big addition to our budget.”

  “From what I could make out,” Simpson answered, “she’s got a pretty good discretionary budget of her own, from Selene. She won’t be a drain on our finances.”

  “For now,” Uhlrich said. “When it comes to actually building the mirrors…”

  “That should cost less than spin casting them. And it’ll go a lot faster than spin casting, too.”

  “And how will we transport the mirrors from Selene?” Uhlrich demanded. “You couldn’t get one of them across the ringwall without cracking it.”

  If the remark stung Simpson, Uhlrich couldn’t tell. The man’s normal tone of voice was a downcast image of worry. Yet he speaks to me like an equal, almost. A strange man. Talented, but tainted.

  “Dr. Cardenas thinks it would be best to build the mirrors in situ. I agree with her,” Simpson replied.

  Startled, Uhlrich asked, “You mean, build the mirrors at the craters where they are to be sited?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But that would mean—”

  Simpson interrupted, “It’ll be a lot easier carrying a batch of nanos and the associated equipment on site than to try transporting the mirrors from here to the craters.”

  Uhlrich fell silent, trying to sort out the possibilities.

  Simpson kept on. “We’ve learned that transporting the mirrors is risky. From what Kris tells me, the nanos can work perfectly fine out on the surface. They don’t need air. All we’d have to do is build a temporary roof over the site to protect everything from radiation and micrometeors. The rest can be done remotely, from the teleoperations center, with a minimum of human oversight at the craters.”

  “You have this all figured out,” Uhlrich murmured.

  “We can build all three mirrors at the same time, get the job done in less than a year.”

  “Less than a year?”

  “Once the foundations are built, and the frames. And the raw materials are delivered,” Simpson said matter-of-factly.

  Uhlrich’s head was spinning. Less than a year! We’d be taking data even before Halleck and her IAA team can assemble their mirror segments in space. Let alone align and test them. But can I trust Simpson’s judgment? Is this scheme of his an actual possibility or merely some drug-induced fantasy?

  The professor realized they had stopped walking. He had lost count of their paces, but figured they must be at his office door.

  “It’s all in my report,” Simpson was saying. “Dr. Cardenas agrees with my conclusions. You can check it out with her.”

  Drawing himself up to his full height, Uhlrich said, “That is exactly what I intend to do, Mr. Simpson.”

  The engineer replied sadly, as if he’d expected such treatment, “That’s what I thought. Now I’ll get back to the teleop center. There’s still a lot of work to do.”

  “And I will read your report,” said Uhlrich, “then contact Dr. Cardenas and discuss it with her.”

  “Fine,” said Simpson. Without another word he turned and started back down the corridor.

  * * *

  As he listened to the audio of Simpson’s report, Professor Uhlrich had to admit that the man was thorough. It was all there, each step necessary to build all three mirrors simultaneously at their sites, using nanomachines.

  He must have stayed up all night to produce such a detailed report, Uhlrich thought. When does the man sleep? Of course the cost estimates are very rough; I’ll have to get the accounting staff at the university to make a refined cost estimate. Still, if Simpson’s figures are anywhere close to accurate, it should cost us a fraction of what spin casting the mirrors would cost.

  Can I trust Simpson’s judgment? Uhlrich wondered. The man uses drugs. Medications, he claims, but whatever they are they could cloud his judgment seriously. His work has been impeccable, so far. But how far can I trust him?

  Uhlrich decided to make two phone calls. One to Dr. Cardenas, at Selene’s nanotechnology laboratory. The other to Farside’s resident physician, the woman who was overseeing Simpson’s medications.

  MEDICAL REPORT

  Dr. Ida Kapstein sat at the table abutting Uhlrich’s desk. He could fairly feel her radiating displeasure. He pictured her in a white medical smock, gleaming and crisp.

  Diplomatically, Uhlrich began, “I’m sorry to call you away from your duties, Doctor.”

  Her voice almost growling, Kapstein answered, “I figured it must be important if you wanted me to come to your office.”

  “It’s about Grant Simpson.”

  “Ah. I should have guessed.”

  Uhlrich steepled his fingers. “This is a rather delicate matter.” He waited for her to respond, but she just sat there like a block of cement, silently staring at him.

  At last he said, “I need to know about his drug use.”

  Kapstein’s tone turned even more nettled. “There is a certain expectation of doctor-patient confidentiality, Professor.”

  Smiling thinly, Uhlrich said, “Even when the safety of the entire Farside staff is at stake?”

  The doctor hesitated. Then, “I don’t think that’s at issue.”

  “Would the technician Henderson have been injured if Simpson had been at his job, where he should have been?”

  Sounding surprised, she said, “It was my un
derstanding that you sent him over to Selene.”

  “Why he was away from his position is not the question here. The question is, would that technician have been injured if Simpson was where he should have been?”

  “That’s got nothing to do with the medications he’s taking.”

  Uhlrich realized she was being loyal to Simpson, not to himself.

  “Doctor,” he said, as amicably as he could manage, “my task is to ensure that my staff works in the safest environment possible.”

  “Grant Simpson isn’t a threat to anybody’s safety,” she said flatly.

  “He’s not taking narcotics?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What medications have you prescribed for him?”

  “That’s on record. You can look it up in the medical files.”

  “Please enlighten me.”

  He sensed Dr. Kapstein tugging her phone from the breast pocket of her coverall. She said to it, “Simpson, Grant, medications prescribed. Audio presentation.”

  She held the phone up so that Uhlrich could hear its tinny voice. It was a long list, mostly incomprehensible.

  “I’m afraid I’m not up on the pharmaceutical terminology,” the professor said.

  “Most of it’s pretty standard for somebody who works out on the surface a lot. Anti-radiation meds, a couple of stem cell injections to repair damage caused by radiation exposure.”

  “You said ‘most of it,’” Uhlrich said.

  “He’s taking some steroids, too,” the doctor admitted grudgingly.

  “Steroids? Why?”

  “They improve physical performance. Stamina. Strength.” Her voice went strangely gentle as she added, “Some men use them in place of aphrodisiacs.”

  Uhlrich felt his face flush.

  The doctor quickly continued, “But Grant isn’t using them that way, I’m sure. He’s taking steroids to help him do his work outside. It isn’t easy, you know, out on the surface stuffed inside one of those hard-shell suits.”