by Issui Ogawa
“Remember Mr. Toenji?” said Iwaki.
“Toenji…” Sohya was momentarily nonplussed.
“The launch party.”
“Ah, right.” Sohya nodded. “Mr. Kentucky.”
“What are you talking about? He’s Japanese.” Iwaki raised an eyebrow.
“No, go on. He just reminded me of somebody. So what’s going on?”
“Doesn’t the name Toenji mean anything to you? Well, I didn’t recognize him right away either. He’s the chairman of Toenji Group.”
“The amusement park Toenji?”
“The amusement park and a lot more.” Iwaki pointed to Sohya’s monitor, which now displayed the Toenji home page. “The group’s main business is their wholly owned subsidiary—ELE, Eden Leisure Entertainment. They run Tokai Eden, the leisure resort near Nagoya. The construction budget was 160 billion yen. They get seven million guests a year. The park is huge. Only Tokyo Disney World and Universal Studios Japan do more turnover. The group has subsidiaries in the hotel and travel business, fast food, magazine publishing, entertainment programming, music, you name it. You must have seen some of their promotions.”
“I know Eve and Adam,” Sohya answered quickly. “I have a friend who’s up on all that stuff. Toenji’s characters are more popular in Japan than the ones from overseas.”
“They’re a major ice-skating sponsor—” Iwaki started to go on, but Sohya rubbed his temples. “What’s this about?”
“The group has 1.25 trillion yen in assets. Sennosuke Toenji is the founder and chairman.”
“So that’s who that old guy was. I’d almost say he doesn’t look the part, but then again…” Sohya had a hard time grasping the concept of all that wealth concentrated in one man. The numbers were too large. Iwaki droned on, all business.
“He’s fond of scotch and likes to surprise people, but that’s not enough reason to travel all the way to the Spratlys, even if he does have the money. Do you remember what he said down there?”
“The moon.” Sohya found himself quoting from memory. Iwaki nodded, but Sohya was blank. “So what about it?”
“He wants Gotoba to build a base there,” said Iwaki.
“He can’t be serious.”
“It looks like he is. ELE sent us a formal request.” Iwaki punched the keyboard on his left wrist, and the display switched to a document titled request for construction. “It’s not a design solicitation. Nothing specific yet. We don’t even know what they plan to do with it. But they did send this. They want a facility to accommodate ten people indefinitely, with future expansion for up to fifty. Feasibility studies, design, development, transport, execution, even initial operations management—they want us to handle everything, in coordination with ELE. The timeline is ten years. The budget is 150 billion yen.”
“But…I mean…” Sohya’s head was swimming. He held his hands in front of his chest and waved his fingers absently. “Is any of this possible?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Iwaki pointed to the group at the other end of the room. The discussion was proceeding more quietly than before.
“We can discuss it, but is it doable?” repeated Sohya.
“Humanity reached the moon decades ago.” The deep voice cutting across the room was that of the president. The division chiefs stood around him with expressions ranging from resigned to dazed. One by one, they took seats around the conference table. Gotoba stood at the end of the table.
“I was a year old on July 20, 1969, when Armstrong and Aldrin walked on the surface of the moon. It was possible then. It can’t be impossible now.” Gotoba spoke slowly and quietly, intent on convincing his listeners. “The Chinese have a small base there already. But everything has been the work of governments, not private enterprise. Our quick review today indicates that this project is well within our reach. Wouldn’t you think so, Sando?”
“Well, yes. So it seems.” Tetsuo Sando was Gotoba’s Technology Development Division chief. He was also a visiting professor at a major institute of science and engineering. Sando stood with one balled fist on the conference room’s large display monitor, his face raised toward the ceiling. His eyes were closed. “Near-vacuum conditions. Huge temperature ranges. Ionizing radiation. Extreme conditions of every type. Build and maintain a facility in such an environment? Yes, we have the expertise. Robotic operations, remote surveying, communications, power transmission—we’re very comfortable operating remotely via telepresence. We have experience building special-application construction equipment from the Spratly project. Obviously we would have no energy-supply problems. Solar radiation will be intense and abundant, with no intervening atmosphere to speak of.
“The question is transport. We need more time to study this, but concrete can be produced using surface material, so the heaviest and bulkiest of the necessary construction materials is up there waiting for us. Sending payloads into space has become fairly routine. I think current launch vehicles can lift payloads up to around twenty tons. Assume twenty-ton payloads of materials and machinery. Planning should not be difficult. Yes, twenty tons will do nicely. Gravity is one-sixth of Earth’s, so we won’t need heavy-lift equipment.”
Sando lowered his head—what hair he had left had gone completely gray—and opened his eyes. He stated crisply, “I would say this project is feasible.”
“There it is,” said Gotoba as he surveyed the room. “To build a base on the moon. What a project!”
Not construct. Build. Suddenly everyone in the room understood. In the mind of this man of rare imagination and dynamism, equipment was already crisscrossing the moon. The outlines of the base were steadily emerging from the surface. The vision was complete in every detail. His mind was made up. This was how the Saharan, Antarctic, Himalayan, and Spratly projects had started: with a single, definitive statement of unshakable intent.
“This is Gotoba Engineering & Construction’s next challenge. I take it there are no objections?”
No one uttered a word of dissent. Far from it—faces relaxed. Some of the division chiefs began shaking with anticipation, the kind of trembling that seizes soldiers before an assault. This was why they had entered the extreme construction field—to execute large, difficult projects. It was what they lived for.
“Then we’ll do it!” Gotoba had both hands flat on the table. He exhaled loudly, as if the project were already complete. Suddenly he stared across the room at Sohya. “Aomine!”
“Sir!” Without hesitation Sohya leapt to his feet, back straight. At the next words he nearly collapsed back into his chair.
“You’re going to the moon.”
“Wha-at?” Sohya’s jaw dropped.
“Site evaluation is first. Go see what it’s like. As I said, the Chinese have a base there. They send a shuttle up every year to resupply and rotate personnel. The next launch is only a month from now. We’ll handle the arrangements. I want you on that shuttle.”
“To the—me? Why moon?” Sohya scrambled his grammar in his excitement. “I mean, I’m too junior. There must be someone else. From another division. I don’t have the background or the qualifications. It’s not that I’m afraid to go. But—”
“Young people get the tough assignments. Your division will lead the charge once things get rolling. And who said you’re not qualified? You don’t need a diploma to travel to the moon,” said Gotoba.
“But, sir, you hardly know me.”
“I chose you because I’ve witnessed what you can do. And Iwaki is not a man to keep anyone but the best under his wing for three years.” Having dismissed Sohya’s stammered protests out of hand, Gotoba leaned forward abruptly. “Anyway, it’s what the client wants.”
“Senno—I mean, Mr. Toenji?” The chair that had been facing in the opposite direction the entire time swiveled around. Sohya nearly groaned. “Tae?”
White beret and collar were set off, as before, by the girl’s long, jet-black hair. She smiled. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Aomine. My grandfather asked
me to go with you. He’s too old to travel to the moon. He wants me to travel in his place and see what it’s like. Grandfather doesn’t want me to go alone, and he was wondering who could go with me. Then we met you. We both agree you’re very trustworthy.”
“You’re going to the moon?” This was really too much for Sohya.
“That’s right. It’s so interesting—Did you know there’s a junior discount for space travel? The less you weigh, the less they charge. For the first time, I’m glad to be kind of skinny.”
Gotoba cut in. “The fare for you is two billion yen. Miss Toenji’s ticket is a billion. Three billion for two, round-trip. The client is footing the bill. We’re counting on you, Aomine.”
“Three billion…for a site evaluation…” Sohya lapsed into speechlessness. His silence lasted so long that Gotoba added, as if playing his trump card: “Look, Aomine. If you won’t go…”
The unspoken part of Gotoba’s statement struck home so sharply Sohya thought for an instant he had actually heard it. If I were you, I would go. In fact, I will go.
There was no way Gotoba could go. He was the heart and brains of the company. And since he could not, he was trusting Sohya with everything. Of course, Sohya could not refuse, nor did he want to. The power of Gotoba’s trust was like a slap that brought his confusion and doubt into sudden clarity. He straightened up. “I’ll go.”
“Then it’s settled.” Gotoba nodded with satisfaction. “We’ll be working on the details till you get back. I’ll expect a comprehensive report.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. This conference is over,” said Gotoba. “Get moving!” He slapped the table. Everyone rose to their feet. “Starting now, Gotoba Engineering & Construction will mobilize to build a base on the moon. It will be a ten-year marathon, but we’ll see it through, no matter what. Give it everything you’ve got!”
The roar that came in reply was a chorus announcing the birth of the Next Continent project.
CHAPTER 2
OPERATIONAL STATUS OF EXISTING FACILITIES
[1]
TAE SQUINTED THROUGH the quartz window of the Chang’e spacecraft, atop China’s Xiwangmu 5 space station module. “I can’t see the surface too well. It’s all blurry,” she said from her perch on Sohya’s lap.
“You have to focus both eyepieces,” answered Sohya.
“I did. But it’s still blurry.”
“Here, let me try.” Sohya reached for the forty-power Nikon binoculars. He peered over her shoulder toward the lunar surface, adjusting the knobs on each eyepiece and trying to gain a consistent focus at a variety of distances. He got the same results as the girl. The stark black-and-white outlines of craters and valleys slowly scrolling past the window refused to come into focus. Focusing the eyes to compensate just made the strain worse. Tae, her head beneath Sohya’s jaw, looked up.
“See?”
“You’re right. Maybe it’s foggy down there.”
“There’s no air.” Tae giggled. She knew when Sohya was joking. For a thirteen-year-old she was surprisingly mature.
After they had struggled for several minutes with the binoculars, Commander Feng, in the center couch, interrupted his discussion with Flight Engineer Ma and turned to Sohya. “There’s a trick to it. Give me those for a minute.”
Feng held the binoculars in front of the window and released them. They floated in the free-fall conditions of lunar orbit. With the tip of his index finger, he gently tapped the binoculars two or three times, rotating the focus knob slightly without displacing the instrument.
“Take a look now. Be careful, don’t bump them.”
It was not clear what he had done, but when Sohya looked through the floating optics, he cried out in surprise. “I can see!”
“Really?” asked Tae incredulously.
“Clear as a bell.”
“Let me look!” She raised her head to look through the glasses. Her long hair was gathered into a bun on her head, but her bangs brushed an eyepiece. The binoculars began to rotate slowly. She whined in frustration and grasped them. Sohya said to Feng, “How did you do it?”
“With the naked eye you can see the surface moving slowly under us. Right? But our altitude is one hundred kilometers, and our speed is about 1.73 kilometers per second. That’s twice as fast as a rifle round. Looking down with forty-power binoculars is like being 2.5 kilometers from the surface. The angular velocity of your field of vision is magnified by small hand tremors. That’s why everything ends up blurred.” He moved the tip of his finger around Tae’s head. “We’re orbiting once every 1.9 hours. Give the binoculars the same orbital period and they’ll track the surface for you. Tae, do you think you can do that?”
“Just focus the eyepiece a little, right? I’ll try.” She parked the binoculars in front of the window and made several attempts to bring the surface into view, using the tip of her finger to rotate the eyepieces, but was unsuccessful. “This is hard!” she pouted. Feng laughed.
“It takes a while to learn. The Russians taught us, but it took us a while too. Manage it before we land and you’ll be a certified taikonaut.” He went back to his predescent checklist.
Though they were based on a Russian design, the Xiwangmu modules were the pride of China’s aerospace program. The China National Space Administration—CNSA—had sourced its manned space technology from the Russians, improved on it, and produced its own spacecraft. The prototype for Xiwangmu was the Soviet Salyut space station module, originally developed in the 1960s for missions to the moon. Thirteen meters long, with a mass of eighteen tons, Salyut was impressively large, but its descendant was more famous: the orbital science station Mir, launched in 1986. Mir consisted of five fourteen-meter cylindrical modules, all based on the Salyut design, arranged around a central spherical docking node. Descendants of Salyut were later incorporated into the International Space Station. It was a classic design, reliable and easily configured.
The key to China’s successful construction of humanity’s first manned moon base in 2020 was her development of Xiwangmu based on the Salyut design. These large modules offered ample living space and could be used to ferry taikonauts and supplies to the moon, where the modules would be lowered to the surface. In effect, that is what China’s lunar base was—Mir modules sitting on the lunar surface. In each of the past four years, China had sent a Xiwangmu to the moon and used it to enlarge the base, which they christened Kunlun. This was Sohya and Tae’s destination.
Four days earlier, they had lifted off with the two-man Chinese crew from Jiuquan Launch Center in Inner Mongolia aboard a Chang’e spacecraft. The Chang’e was also based on a Russian design—Soyuz—and carried by a Long March III launch vehicle.
At first, Sohya and Tae’s participation in the mission was in doubt. With his usual drive and network of connections, Gotoba set about securing places on Chang’e, but was only able to obtain one. And that seemed to be that. Each new Chinese crew relieved those already on the moon and remained there till the next Xiwangmu arrived a year later. But Sohya and Tae were scheduled to return at the first opportunity, which meant that at least one base member would be forced to extend their stay for an extra year. This would create numerous operational complications. For the Chinese to grant permission for even one place on Chang’e was a huge concession.
One place on the three-seat spacecraft should have meant one passenger, but thanks to Gotoba’s negotiations—and a well-timed cash transfer of three billion yen—the Chinese found a solution. Tae would travel into orbit sitting on Sohya’s lap.
At first this seemed absurd. Nothing of the sort would have been possible with NASA, given the Americans’ famously strict adherence to procedure. Yet the idea was not that outlandish. Sohya was of average build, and Tae was a slender girl. The Chinese crew members were not very large either. The prototype for Chang’e was the Soyuz TM spacecraft, and although Soyuz was designed for comparatively small cosmonauts, the combined weight of Sohya, Tae, and the two Chinese differed litt
le from that of three Russians. The problem was not the number of passengers but their combined weight.
In the end, it proved easier to proceed than to worry about theory. The launch went flawlessly. The Chang’e with four passengers aboard withstood the acceleration and shock of launch and reached Earth’s orbit safely. When they arrived there, Xiwangmu 5, successfully launched twenty-four hours earlier, was standing by. Xiwangmu’s primary mission at this point was to carry a large payload of supplies to Kunlun. The module was equipped with the detachable second-stage booster needed to insert its considerable mass into a lunar transfer orbit.
Conditions were more comfortable once they docked with the waiting Xiwangmu. Though packed with supplies, it was still far more spacious than their three-couch capsule. The four voyagers went through the forward docking hatch and spent the three-day trajectory to the moon aboard Xiwangmu 5.
The Soyuz TM stack consisted of three components: an orbital module, a descent module in the middle, and a service module with engines astern. The Chang’e replaced the orbital module with a return module for the journey from the moon to Earth.
Once in orbit around the moon, the spacecraft detached from Xiwangmu, rotated 180 degrees, and redocked with the return module pointing forward. It was then detached and parked in orbit. Once on the surface, Chang’e was detached, and Xiwangmu was joined to the other base modules.
To return to Earth, the Chang’e from the previous mission was used to reach orbit, where the return module was waiting. This ensured that the base crew had a recently maintenanced spacecraft if an emergency forced them to leave the base.
After using the Chang’e service module to reach lunar orbit and dock with the waiting return module, the taikonauts headed back to Earth, where the return and service modules separated and burned up in the atmosphere. On the moon leg of the journey, the Chang’e weighed twenty-seven tons; the only thing to reenter the atmosphere was the three-ton descent module.