by Ben Bova
He laughed aloud. “Me! The savior of Dan Randolph!”
He was still giggling when he put through his call to Nobuhiko Yamagata.
The head of Yamagata Industries was in his Tokyo office, from the looks of it. Humphries could see through the window behind Yamagata several construction cranes and the spidery steelwork of new towers going up. Rebuilding from the last earthquake. They’d better build stronger, he thought grimly. A lot stronger. “Mr. Yamagata,” Humphries said, nodding his head once in imitation of a polite bow. “It’s good of you to take the time to talk with me.” He thought about putting Yamagata’s image on the wallscreen, but that would make the Japanese look too big. He preferred the smaller desktop screen. “Mr. Humphries,” said Nobo, nearly three seconds later, barely dipping his chin.
“It is always a pleasure to converse with you.”
Blasted bullshit, Humphries thought. You can’t come right out and say what you want with these Japs. You have to make polite fucking conversation for half an hour before you can get down to business.
To his surprise, though, Yamagata said, “Dan Randolph has asked me to invest in a new venture.”
“Let me guess,” Humphries said. “He wants to build a fusion rocket system.” Again the wait for the microwaves to reach Tokyo and return. “Yes, to go out to the Asteroid Belt and begin developing the resources there.”
“And what will your answer be?”
Once Yamagata heard Humphries’s question, his normally impassive face showed a tic of annoyance.
“I will be forced to tell him that Yamagata Industries is fully committed to rebuilding the cities that were damaged so heavily by the tsunamis and earthquakes. We have no funds to spare on space developments.”
“Good,” said Humphries.
Yamagata seemed to freeze into stone. At last he murmured, “It will be as we agreed.”
“You’d like to help him, wouldn’t you?”
The seconds stretched. At last Yamagata said, “He is an old friend.”
“You two were competitors at one time.”
“Yamagata Industries no longer has any operations in space,” the Japanese said slowly. “All of our energies are devoted to terrestrial developments.”
“So I understand.”
“But I agree with Dan. The resources from space can be of vital importance to our rebuilding efforts.”
“I think so, too.”
Yamagata seemed to be searching Humphries’s eyes, trying to penetrate to his secret thoughts. “Then why do you insist that I refuse to help him?”
“You misunderstand me,” Humphries said, putting on an expression of injured integrity. “I want Randolph to succeed. I intend to fund his fusion rocket venture myself.”
“Yes, so I understand,” said Yamagata, once Humphries’s answer reached him.
“What I do not understand is why you pressured me to refuse Dan.”
“Could you help him if you wish?”
Yamagata hesitated, but at last replied, “I could put together two billion for him.”
“Without hurting your rebuilding projects?”
The hesitation was longer this time. “There would be some… repercussions.”
“But I can provide the funding and you don’t have to take a penny from your existing projects.”
Yamagata said nothing for many long moments. Then, “You have put considerable pressure on the banks to make certain that I do not fund Dan Randolph. I want to know why.”
“Because I believe the same as you do,” Humphries replied, earnestly, “that all of Japan’s resources of capital and manpower should be devoted to rebuilding your nation. This fusion rocket venture is very speculative. Suppose it doesn’t work? The money will be wasted.”
“Yet you are willing to risk your own money.”
“I have the money to risk,” Humphries said.
After an even longer pause, Yamagata said, “You could invest that two billion in Japan. You could help to house the homeless and feed the hungry. You could assist us to rebuild our cities.”
Humphries worked hard to avoid grinning. Now I’ve got the little bugger, he told himself. To Yamagata he said, “Yes, you’re right. Tell you what I’ll do: I’ll give Randolph one billion only, and invest the other billion in Yamagata Industries. How’s that?”
The Japanese industrialist’s eyes flickered when he heard Humphries’s words. He sucked in a deep, shrill breath.
“Would you be willing to invest your billion in the Renew Nippon Fund?”
“That’s essentially a charity, isn’t it?”
“It is a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping those who have been displaced by our natural disasters.”
This time Humphries hesitated, paused, let Yamagata believe that he was thinking it over before he came to a decision. The damned fool. Thinks he’s so fucking smart, keeping me from putting any money into his own corporation. Okay, keep me shut out from your company. I’ll get you sooner or later. With as much of a show of concern as he could muster, Humphries said, “Mr. Yamagata, if you think that’s the best way for me to help Japan, then that’s what I’ll do. One billion for Randolph, and one billion for the Renew Nippon Fund.” Yamagata was actually smiling as they ended their conversation. Once he had switched off the phone, Humphries burst into enormously satisfied laughter. They’re all so dense! So blind! Yamagata wants to rebuild Japan. Randolph wants to save the whole fricking world. Damned fools! None of them understand that the world is done for. Nothing’s going to save them. The thing is to build a new civilization off-Earth. Build a new society where it’s safe, where only the best people are allowed to live. Build it… and rule it.
LONDON
The Executive Board of the Global Economic Council met in a spacious conference room on the top floor of the undistinguished neomodern glass-andsteel office tower that served as the GEC’s headquarters. Originally, GEC’s offices had been in Amsterdam, but the rising sea level and pounding storms that raged through the North Sea made that city untenable. The Dutch struggled in vain to hold back the IJsselmeer, only to see their city’s narrow streets and gabled houses flooded time and again as the canals overflowed and the unrelenting sea took back the land that had been reclaimed by centuries of hard work. The GEC fled to London.
Not that London itself was immune to the rampaging storms and flooding. But the Thames was easier to control than the North Sea. And most of London was still above even the new, rising sea level.
Meetings of the Global Economic Council were usually restricted to the nine regular members and the privileged few who were invited to explain their positions or plead their causes. The news media were barred from the meetings, and there was no gallery for the public to attend.
Still, Vasily Malik dreaded this meeting of the Executive Board. Dan Randolph had demanded a hearing, and Randolph always made trouble. Vasily Sergeivitch Malik was handsome enough to be a video star. He was tall for a Russian, slightly over one hundred eighty centimeters, broad-shouldered and heavily muscled. About the same age as Dan Randolph, Malik kept his body in good trim through a rigid schedule of daily exercise — and rejuvenation therapies that he kept secret from everyone except his doctors in Moscow. Most people thought he dyed his once-graying hair; no one knew that injections of telomerase had returned youthful vigor to him. Malik enjoyed his secret. His Arctic blue eyes sparkled with good humor.
Until he thought about Dan Randolph. Once they had been deadly enemies in politics, in business, even in romance. The catastrophic greenhouse cliff had forced them into a reluctant alliance. The old enmities were buried; not forgotten, but put aside while they each strove in their own way to save what remained of Earth’s civilization.
We still don’t think alike, Malik said to himself as he took his chair at the long committee table. He was serving as chairman for this session, so he knew that Randolph’s principal fire would be directed at him. It’s nothing personal, Malik repeated silently over and over. That was fini
shed long ago. Our differences now are differences of attitude, differences of outlook and expectation. Still, his stomach knotted at the thought of tangling with Randolph again. The conference room was comfortable without being ostentatious. The carpeting was neutral gray, although thick and expensive. The sweeping windows that extended along one entire wall were discreetly curtained; a long sideboard of polished mahogany stood there, bearing a variety of drinks from spring water to iced vodka, and trays of finger foods. The table at which the board members sat was also mahogany; each place was set with a built-in computer and electronic stylus. The chairs were high-backed, luxuriously padded and upholstered in matte black leather.
Randolph had insisted, however, that the room be sprayed with disinfectant before the meeting began. Malik had been assured that the spray was necessary, and odorless. Still, his nose wrinkled as he took his chair in the exact middle of the table. Once all nine Board members were comfortably seated at the long table, Malik nodded to the uniformed guard at the door to admit the day’s witnesses. Dan Randolph came through the door and strode straight to the witness table. He looked firm and fit to Malik, dressed in a respectable business suit of dark blue. Randolph’s chin was sticking out pugnaciously. He expects a fight, Malik thought. Behind Randolph came two others. One was a gnomish, dark-haired man, Randolph’s technical expert. Malik glanced at the agenda notes on the display screen built into the table before him: Lyall Duncan, an engineer. The other person was a tall blond woman who looked too young to be an expert at anything, except perhaps warming Randolph’s bed. A few keystrokes and the display screen identified her as an electronics engineer from California. Malik caught Randolph’s eye as the American took his seat at the witness table. A slight crease across his face showed he had been wearing a sanitary mask. Randolph’s usual cocky grin was absent. He looked determined, and deadly serious.
Suppressing a groan, Malik called the meeting to order. They went through the standard agenda items first, while Randolph sat tensely, watching them like a leopard sizing up a herd of antelope. Finally they came to Randolph’s item: Request for funding new space propulsion system. Malik formally introduced Randolph to the other Board members, most of whom already knew Dan. Then, wishing he were elsewhere, Malik asked Dan to explain his proposal.
Randolph looked up at the Board and surveyed the long table from one end to the other. There were no notes before him, no slides or videos. Nothing on the little table except a silver carafe of water and a single crystal tumbler beside it. Slowly, he got to his feet.
“Ever since the greenhouse cliff hit,” he began, “and our world’s climate began to shift so drastically — no, actually, even before the greenhouse cliff came — it’s been clear that the people of Earth need the resources that exist off-planet. Energy, raw materials, metals, minerals, all of the resources that Earth needs to rebuild its crippled economy lies in tremendous abundance in interplanetary space.” He paused for a heartbeat, then resumed. “In fact, if we have any hope of stabilizing the global climate and avoiding even worse warming than we’ve experienced so far, then a significant portion of the Earth’s heavy industries must be moved off-planet.”
“That’s not possible,” snapped the representative from North America, a doughfaced white-haired professor in an academic’s tweed jacket.
Randolph stared at him bleakly. Once Jane Scanwell had been the North American on the Board.
“It’s not economically feasible today,” he replied softly. “But if you’ll provide the funding, it will be possible within a year.”
“One year?”
“Impossible!”
“How can you—”
Malik tapped lightly on the tabletop with his notebook stylus and their voices fell silent.
Randolph smiled tightly at him. “Thank you, Mr. Chairman.”
“Please explain your statement,” Malik said.
“The key to the economic development of space lies in the costs of acquiring the raw materials in the Asteroid Belt. With the metals and organic minerals from the asteroids, the people of Earth will have access to a pool of natural resources that’s far greater than the entire planet Earth ran provide.”
“The people of the Earth?” questioned the representative from Pan Asia. “Or the corporations that reach the asteroids and begin mining them?”
“The people,” Randolph said flatly. “If you provide the funding necessary for this, my corporation will do the work at cost.”
“At cost?”
“No fees whatsoever?”
“At cost,” Randolph repeated.
“We would certainly want our own accountants examining your cost figures,” said the woman representing Black Africa, very seriously.
“Of course,” Randolph replied with a wan smile.
“Wait a moment,” Malik intervened. “Just what would our money be funding?
You haven’t told us what you actually propose to do.” Randolph took a deep breath, then said, “We have to develop a fusion rocket system.”
Again the Board broke into querulous chatter. Malik had to tap his stylus sharply before they fell silent.
“A fusion rocket system?” he asked Randolph.
“We have developed and tested a small flight model of a fusion rocket,” Randolph said. Turning slightly in his chair, he went on, “Dr. Duncan can explain it, if you like. We sent detailed notes to each of you when we applied for this hearing; I’m sure your own technical experts have gone over them.” Reluctant nods from the Board.
“I can show you a video of the flight tests we’ve done, if you wish.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Malik said.
“The key to any and all operations in space is the cost of transportation,” Randolph said. “The Clipperships that Masterson Aerospace developed have brought down the costs of going into Earth orbit. They opened up the Earth-Moon system for development.”
“And encouraged Selene to thumb its nose at us,” grumbled the representative from Latin America.
“Why do we need fusion rockets?” Malik asked, raising his voice enough to cut off any possible digression into the politics of the lunar nation’s insistence on remaining independent of the GEC.
“Transportation costs,” Randolph answered quickly. “Fusion rockets will cut the trip times and fuel costs for missions to the asteroids down to the point where they can be practical and profitable.”
“Profitable for whom?”
“For the entire human race,” Randolph snapped, looking slightly irked. “As I’ve already said, I’m willing to develop the fusion system and operate expeditions to the Asteroid Belt at cost.”
“Under GEC management?”
Randolph visibly gritted his teeth. “No. That would be a bureaucratic disaster. But I’ll agree to run the show under GEC oversight. You’ll have complete access to our books. That’s fair enough, I think.”
Malik leaned back in his padded chair and allowed the other Board members to grill Randolph. Most of their questions were trivial, or repeated questions already asked and answered. Most of the Board members talked mainly to hear the beloved sound of their own voices, Malik knew.
He had seen the video of Randolph’s flight tests. He had reviewed the technical data on the fusion rocket with the best scientists and engineers in the world. The Duncan Drive worked. There was no technical reason to believe that it would not work in a full-scale interplanetary spacecraft. It would cut the travel time to the Asteroid Belt from years to weeks, or less.
We should fund it, Malik thought. We should back Randolph to the hilt. But we won’t, of course.
“But what’s the fuel for this rocket?” one of the Board members was asking. Patiently, Randolph replied, “The same as the fuel for the fusion powerplants that generate electricity here on the ground: isotopes of hydrogen and helium.”
“Like the helium-three that’s mined on the Moon?”
“Right.” Randolph nodded.
“That is very expensive fuel,”
muttered the representative from Greater India.
“Very expensive.”
“A little goes a long way,” Dan said, with a forced smile. The representative from the League of Islam said irritably, “Selene has raised the price of helium-three twice in the past year. Twice! I have no doubt they are preparing to raise it again.”
“We can get the fuel from space itself,” Dan said, raising his voice slightly.
“From space itself?”
“How?”
“The solar wind blows through interplanetary space. It’s the solar wind that deposits helium-three and hydrogen isotopes on the lunar soil.”
“You mean regolith,” pointed out the representative from United Europe.
“Regolith, right,” Randolph admitted.
“How can you get the fuel from the solar wind?”
“The same way a jet airplane gets air for its engines,” Randolph replied. “We’ll scoop it in as we go.”
Malik saw that the Scottish engineer, sitting off to Randolph’s side, squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.
“Scoop it in? Really?”
“Sure,” Randolph answered. “We’ll use an electromagnetic scoop… a big funnelshaped magnetic field. That way we’ll be able to scoop in the fuel we need as we travel.”
“How large a scoop will be necessary?”
Randolph made an exaggerated shrug. “That’s for the tech people to work out. For the first missions to the Belt we’ll carry the fusion fuel in tankage, just like other rockets. But eventually we’ll be able to scoop fuel from the solar wind. That’ll allow us to carry an even bigger payload, per unit of thrust.” Turning slightly in his chair, Randolph asked, “Isn’t that right, Lon?”
Duncan, the engineer, looked dubious, but he knew enough to answer, “Right.” With a glance at his wristwatch, Malik tapped his stylus again on the tabletop and said, “Thank you, Mr. Randolph, for a most interesting presentation.” Randolph fixed his gray eyes on Malik. The Russian went on, “The Hoard will discuss the question and inform you of its decision.”
“Time is of the essence,” Randolph said.