by Ben Bova
Herzberg took bigger sip of bourbon. Thrasher could see the wheels in his head spinning.
“I’m afraid that if Dr. Hynes is dropped from the mission, all the other scientists will quit in protest.”
Thrasher had expected that. “All the other American scientists,” he said.
Herzberg’s brows knit. “What do you mean by that?”
“There are plenty of scientists from other nations who’d be deliriously happy to go with us to Mars: the Japanese, the Brits—”
“You can’t be serious!”
“I am totally, entirely, completely, absolutely serious.”
With some heat, Herzberg accused, “You’re supposed to want to put Americans on Mars, and yet you’re threatening to keep American scientists off the mission? You’re a hypocrite!”
“I want to put human beings on Mars,” Thrasher shot back. “Americans, if possible. You’re the one who’s threatening to pull the American scientists off the mission.”
Herzberg said nothing for several heartbeats. He simply sat before Thrasher’s desk, the glass of bourbon in one hand, staring intently at Thrasher. Then, strangely, he broke into a grudging smile.
“All right,” he said. “All right. You’ve got the advantage over me. We wouldn’t want the first mission to Mars to have no American scientists.”
Thrasher leaned both forearms on his desk and grinned back at the older man. “Then you were bluffing.”
“I was bluffing.”
Straightening up, Thrasher said, “Okay, then. How do we make the best of the situation?”
“Dr. Hynes is going to be very unhappy. Very unhappy. I promised him I’d talk to you, one-on-one. I don’t usually lose one-on-one confrontations.”
Thrasher was thinking furiously. How to make this right? How can I let the guy have his cake and eat it too?
“What if your man can go along on the mission anyway, just not physically?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Virtual reality,” said Thrasher, like a man pulling a rabbit out of a hat. “Hynes trains Dougherty to be his stooge: Dougherty will do what Hynes tells him and Hynes can experience it from his own office here on Earth.”
“Virtual reality?”
“We’re including a virtual reality link on the mission. It’ll allow users to experience what the Mars team is doing, in real time—except for the distance lag.”
“Train the stuntman to be Hynes’ eyes and ears . . .”
“And hands and legs,” Thrasher said eagerly.
“If that could be possible—”
“It’s possible. Thousands of ordinary people will be linked to the Mars team through VR. Millions of people!”
Herzberg’s smile faded a trifle. “Still, it won’t be the same as actually being on Mars.”
Thrasher jabbed a finger in the scientist’s direction. “Look, what does your boy want? Is he in this for the personal glory of going to Mars, or is he in this to study Martian geology first-hand, to learn, to explore, to discover?”
Nodding, Herzberg said, “I can see how you’ve been able to bring this mission into reality. You’re quiet a conniver, Mr. Thrasher.”
“Art; my friends call me Art.”
“I think I’ll stick with Mr. Thrasher for the present. If your VR scheme works, then we can become friends.”
“It’ll work, I know it will. You should get yourself over to the University of Arizona and talk with Dr. Kristin Anders.”
His brow furrowing slightly, Herzberg said, “Anders. I don’t know any Kristin Anders.”
“She works with Professor Winninger.”
“Ah! Winninger I’ve heard of.”
“Dr. Anders does most of the work that he gets credit for.”
His smile turning rueful, Herzberg admitted, “That’s not an unusual situation, I’m afraid.”
“You talk with Winninger and Anders. They’ll convince you that the VR system will work.”
“And then I’ll have to convince Quentin.”
“Take him to Tucson with you. He’ll be convinced. He’ll even become famous as the first scientist to explore Mars through virtual reality.”
Herzberg nodded again. “All the glory with little of the risk. That might appeal to him. And his wife.”
3
VINCE EGAN
This isn’t going to be easy, Thrasher told himself as he climbed into the Citationjet. Vince Egan was already aboard, he knew. Now to confront Vince with what Ramona found out.
Thrasher wished he was a thousand miles away, or maybe hanging by his toenails on the lip of a seething hot volcano.
The Cessna was cheaper to operate than his old Learjet, but the cabin was so small that Thrasher had to duck his head as he went to the seat facing Vince’s.
“Hi, boss,” Egan said cheerfully. “What’s the occasion?”
“Occasion?” Thrasher asked as he buckled his seat belt.
“Why’d you ask me to fly to Portales with you?”
The plane’s engines whined to life as Thrasher tried to find words to start the interrogation.
“How’s the VR program going?”
Egan looked surprised. “I just handed you the monthly progress report. Everything’s fine. Polk and his flyboys are installing the equipment aboard Mars One, right on schedule.”
Nodding, Thrasher said, “Good.”
As the plane taxied out to the runway, Egan broke into a crooked grin and said, “Dr. Anders is in Australia, you know.”
Thrasher’s chin went up a notch. “She is? Since when?”
“Took off yesterday. Dougherty wants a VR system for Woomera after all, and since all the real work’s been done on our system, she figured she’d go to the Outback and see what it’s like.”
“Dougherty,” Thrasher muttered. “With a friend like him, who needs an enemy?”
“I think she’s interested in him,” said Egan. “Personally, I mean.”
“Figures.”
The plane hurtled down the runway and arrowed into the sky. Thrasher saw Hobby Airport dwindling and the vast flat scrubland of Texas stretching out to the horizon. The city of Houston and its sprawling suburbs were behind them, unseen; as far as the view from his window was concerned, they didn’t exist.
“So why’re you taking me along on this trip to Portales?” Egan asked again.
Thrasher bit his lip as he looked at the younger man. I’ve known Vince since he was a kid at MIT, he told himself. I’ve made him head of Thrasher Digital’s engineering department. Why would he want to screw me over?
“Vince,” he began. “About the accident on that first Delta IV launch . . .”
“The one from Cape Canaveral.”
“Yeah.” Thrasher took a deep breath, then blurted, “Maybe it wasn’t an accident.”
Egan frowned, uncomprehending. “Not an accident? You mean, somebody caused the explosion? On purpose?”
Thrasher nodded.
“I thought about that possibility myself, Art. I went over every detail of the accident report. Couldn’t find anything to put my finger on. The damned valve just malfunctioned.”
“That valve was inspected at least four different times before the flight.”
“Yeah, I now. But sometimes a glitch happens.”
“Or is made to happen.”
Egan stared at him as the plane climbed to its cruising altitude.
“Who the hell would sabotage the launch?”
“I’ve had somebody looking into that,” said Thrasher.
“He find anything?”
“She. And yes, she found something. Not much, but something.”
“What?”
“You made three deposits into your IRA account in the six weeks before the accident, and two more afterward. They total two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Egan looked as if he’d been smacked between the eyes by a two-by-four.
“Me? You looked into my bank accounts?”
“We looked i
nto everybody’s,” Thrasher said, feeling miserable. “You’re the only one with such a big jump. Plus a couple of technicians out at the Cape who got ten thousand each.”
“And you think I . . .” Egan’s mouth hung open but no more words came out.
As reasonably as he could manage, Thrasher said, “We’re covering all the bases, Vince. I don’t want to believe that you’re involved in this, but I’ve got to get to the bottom of things.”
“And you think I fucked you over,” Egan said, practically snarling. “I’ve worked for you for damned near fifteen years and you think I’m a rat, a traitor!”
“Vince, please . . .”
“Go to hell, Art! My parents and Mary-Ellen’s grandmother pony up enough cash to keep us from defaulting on our home loan and you think I’m a goddamned saboteur! Fuck you!”
“Is that what it was?”
“Yeah, that’s what it was. You know the house we bought; you’ve had dinner with us, for chrissakes!”
“You were in danger of defaulting?”
“We bought the fucking palace at the peak of the market. Now the mortgage payments are way more than the place is worth.”
“But your salary . . . or you could have come to me . . .”
“Three kids in school. And you’ve got enough problems without me adding to them. Our families bailed us out. I didn’t blow up your damned rocket.”
Feeling miserable, Thrasher said, “I’m sorry, Vince. I didn’t want to believe you were responsible for the accident, but I had to check out all the possibilities.”
Egan looked away from him, his face white with anger. For long moments the only sound in the plane’s cabin was the muted drone of its engines.
“Vince, I apologize.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t want to think it was you, but I had to check out all the possibilities.”
“You already said that.”
More silence. Thrasher said to himself, I’ve lost him. He’ll never be able to work for me again. He thinks I don’t trust him.
Then Egan said, “So how are you going to find out who really fouled up the launch?”
“I don’t know,” said Thrasher.
“You said there were a couple of technicians at the Cape who got wads of money?”
“Ten thousand each.”
“Our guys?”
“No, they worked for ILS. Yamagata’s people.”
“Yamagata’s in Australia now.”
“That’s right.”
“Maybe we ought to track down those two guys and see what they’ve got to say for themselves.”
Thrasher’s heart soared at Vince’s use of the word “we.”
“Maybe we should,” he said.
4
ASTROLAUNCH
As he walked across the tarmac toward the waiting Astrolaunch plane, Thrasher told himself that this strange-looking hybrid aircraft would take him from California to Melbourne in less time than it had taken him to fly from Houston to Mohave.
Officially, legally, he was not a passenger on a commercial vehicle. The FAA was still plodding through its interminable mountain of paperwork before certifying the Astrolaunch vehicle for commercial operation. Instead, Thrasher flew as a volunteer observer on an experimental flight—after signing dozens of insurance and safety waivers. If I get killed on this flight, he thought uneasily, my estate won’t get a cent out of it.
Might be a slick way to get rid of me, he realized.
The Astrolaunch vehicle was a strange sight, sitting in the bright, warm desert sunlight. To Thrasher, it looked like two ultramodernistic airplanes joined together at the wing, all curves and undulating lines. It reminded him of the Spanish architect, Gaudi, and his fantastic houses in Barcelona.
The long wings drooped almost to the ground. A pair of powerful turbojet engines hung beneath each of the wings. Between them, two snub-nosed fuselages extended back to a pair of raked tails. And between the fuselages hung the rocketplane that would carry him to Melbourne.
The strangely ungainly-looking carrier plane would lift its rocket-powered payload to nearly one hundred thousand feet, then release the rocketplane, which would zoom off to Melbourne. Flight time was estimated to be forty-eight minutes from the release point.
It could be even shorter if we crash, Thrasher thought.
Walking toward the craft with him were five people. Four of them—including one woman—were pilots. Two for the carrier plane, two for the rocket. The fifth was Bart Rutherford, looking very serious in zippered flight coveralls. Thrasher, walking beside him, was in his normal sports jacket and slacks.
Squinting up at Rutherford, silhouetted against the bright California sky, Thrasher asked, “You’ve flown this bird before, haven’t you?”
Rutherford shook his long blond locks. “Not this one. I’ve done two flights in the sister ship.”
“This isn’t the first flight for this bird, is it?” Thrasher asked, suddenly alarmed, remembering the old adage that one should never fly in an aircraft on its maiden voyage.
Rutherford grinned. “No, Art. You can relax. This bird’s flown twice already.”
“Not that I was worried,” Thrasher said weakly.
“Me neither.”
Two of the pilots—including the woman—climbed into the carrier plane’s left fuselage while Thrasher followed Rutherford and the two other pilots to the hatch leading into the rocketplane. Its stubby wings looked too small to keep it aloft, Thrasher thought. But then he realized that most of the bird’s flight through the atmosphere would be at hypersonic speed.
As he clambered up the ladder and through the hatch, Thrasher told himself he was risking his neck just to have an hour’s talk with Saito Yamagata. But it had to be done. He needed Yamagata’s help to track down the technicians who had been enriched by ten thousand dollars each at the time of the Delta IV explosion.
The two pilots went up forward to the cockpit and closed its hatch. Thrasher thought the interior of the spaceplane was surprisingly plush: six comfortable reclining chairs and padded bulkheads. The windows were small, but adequate. Rutherford gestured to the middle row of seats. Thrasher took the seat by the left window and buckled the safety harness over his shoulders. Rutherford sat across the aisle from him and did the same.
The takeoff was smoothly normal. “Plenty of acoustical insulation,” Rutherford said as they sped down the runway and into the sky. Thrasher looked down at the barren Mohave landscape: nothing but sand and scrub, except for the runway and its buildings. He saw the other Astrolaunch plane sitting in front of a hangar.
If and when the FAA finally gives its okay, he thought, Astrolaunch is going to make a mint out of long-range, high-speed commercial flights. There were rumors that both Boeing and Lockheed Martin were making offers to buy the company. And I won’t get a nickel out of it. He sighed inwardly. At least I’ll be able to get back and forth a lot faster.
The climb to release altitude was uneventful. Rutherford chattered about airspeed and angle of attack. Thrasher listened with half his attention, worrying about his upcoming conversation with Yamagata. Would Saito help him find the saboteur? Assuming there really was one. One of the technicians under suspicion was Japanese. Would Yamagata try to protect him out of some nationalistic loyalty?
Outside his window, Thrasher saw that the sky had turned dark, almost black. The ocean looked very far below, like a sheet of dimpled gray steel, dotted with rows of puffy white clouds.
“Release in one minute,” the pilot announced over the intercom speaker.
Rutherford leaned toward Thrasher and said, “Now the fun starts.”
The digital display on the bulkhead up front ticked down the seconds. As the number five flashed, Rutherford muttered, “Here we go.”
Suddenly they were falling. Thrasher felt his stomach drop away.
“Release on schedule,” came the pilot’s voice. Then, “Ignition.”
Thrasher felt a strong push in the small of his back an
d heard a thunderous roar. Rutherford gave out a whoop. “Yahoo!”
And they were zooming up, the ocean beneath them falling away speedily, the sky turning absolutely black. Thrasher could see the horizon was curved. The rocket’s bellowing howl seemed to diminish but still he felt the acceleration pushing against his back.
“Wow,” Thrasher managed to say.
“Cutoff in thirty seconds,” the pilot announced, his voice flat, calm, routine.
The push against his back disappeared and Thrasher’s arms floated up off the seat’s armrests.
“You’re in space, Art,” Rutherford said, grinning hugely. “How do you like it?”
Thrasher nodded weakly and forced a grin, while trying with all his concentration to keep his stomach from crawling up into his throat.
He managed to gasp, “You didn’t tell me . . . we’d be in zero gravity.”
“It’s only for a couple of minutes, Art. You’ll feel some weight once we start our descent and bite back into the atmosphere.” Rutherford seemed blithely unaffected by the lack of weight; he was enjoying the ride.
Thrasher remembered the first time he’d ridden a roller coaster, when he’d been five or six. Don’t throw up, he commanded himself silently, forcing his hands down to grip the seat’s armrests. Don’t make an ass of yourself.
“Re-entry,” announced the pilot.
The rocketplane began to buffet and Thrasher’s stomach settled back to its rightful place. He saw sparks flashing past his window, and then a panel slid over the glass, blocking his view.
The plane shuddered and bucked noticeably. Thrasher thought that zero-gravity wasn’t so bad, after all.
“Australia, here we come,” Rutherford said, with a chuckle.
Thrasher kept his mouth clamped shut. The shuddering, bumpy ride smoothed out at last and the window panels slid back. He was somewhat startled to see that it was fully night outside; they had left California in mid-morning.
“We’re passing New Zealand right about now,” Rutherford informed him. “South Island. Christchurch.”
“How fast are we going?”
Rutherford pointed to the digital display on the forward bulkhead. It read: MACH 4.8.