Parker's Folly

by Doug L. Hoffman

  Among those in the know were TK, the Captain and Lt. Curtis, along with a handful of engineers. If Parker's Folly worked as planned it would change everything. No more rockets rising on columns of fire, throwing away large expensive chunks of themselves while expending millions of pounds of fuel to place a few thousand pounds of payload into orbit. At least that is what they all fervently hoped.

  TK reached out and ran his hand across the curving hull above him in a loving caress. Then his high-tech wheelchair suddenly whipped about, rotating in place to face his ship's captain and first officer. “I got a bad feeling about this. If the news media knows about our little project there's sure to be some government snoops coming around. Damn government always looking for something to steal from honest folk.”

  Captain Sutton and Lt. Curtis stood at parade rest, both with their hands clasped behind their backs—they had heard TK's opinions about the government many times before.

  “I'm going to go handle the busybodies from the fourth estate,” the old man continued. “You two get the Folly ready to fly, and I mean now!”

  His use of the name Folly for the ship caused Curtis to blink and the Captain to raise his eyebrows questioningly.

  “What? You think I don't know what the workers call her? Well I've got no better name for her than Parker's Folly and it will just help rub their noses in it when she blasts outa' here.” Without further comment he again pivoted his electric wheelchair in place and headed off toward the exit ramp and the path back to the ranch house a half mile away.

  “Well,” said the Captain, “I believe we have been given 'prepare for imminent departure' orders. We still need to run a successful full-power system test—hopefully Dr. Gupta has the muonium problem solved.”

  “I'll head back to the engine room and inform him we are about to run another test,” replied the First Officer. Sutton nodded tacit approval as they walked up the ramp to the forward airlock together. Entering the ship, she headed aft through officer country while the Captain climbed up a level to the bridge.

  * * * * *

  Upon reaching the aft engineering spaces, Curtis sighted the slender form of Dr. Rajiv Gupta hunched over a glowing display panel. Gupta, who had PhDs in both Chemistry and Physics, was, for lack of a better title, the ship's chief engineer. If anyone understood how the mysterious devices in the aft portion of the ship functioned it was Rajiv.

  His dark skin, black hair and dark brown eyes reflected his Indian heritage, though he had been born in San Jose. As with many children of immigrants, Rajiv was an academic overachiever, earning degrees from Stanford (elemental particle physics) and Cal Tech (physical and theoretical chemistry). He also picked up an undergraduate degree in Electrical Engineering and a masters in Computer Science along the way, both from Berkeley. After bouncing around various universities, high-tech companies and government research labs he had somehow been enticed into working on Parker's Folly.

  “Dr. Gupta, how are things going?” asked Curtis.

  “Oh, it is you Gretchen,” said the scientist, looking up. “What brings you to my mad scientist’s lair?” Dr. Gupta was gregarious and outgoing by nature, tending to call everyone by their given name. The ship's officers, all having some form of military background, tended to be more formal, but that did not affect Gupta in the slightest—everyone was the equivalent of a colleague or at least a graduate student in his world view.

  At some institutions, particularly in undergraduate programs, the professors insisted on being called Doctor or Professor, but most graduate schools took the approach that everyone, student and teacher alike, were all scholars working together and hence on a first name basis. This made sense to Rajiv and he saw no reason to change his attitude.

  “Mr. Parker has expressed a desire to have the ship ready for imminent departure. The Captain is on the bridge and sent me here to see when we can run a full-power system check.”

  “Well, I have made a number of changes to the calibration settings but I have not been able to verify that the spurious production of muonium has been overcome. As you know, the power plant's reaction rates depend on the isotopic identity of the reactants and products. Basically, it is a manifestation of the role quantum zero-point energy plays in chemical kinetics and is a consequence of the Born-Oppenheimer separation of electronic and nuclear motion in molecules.”

  “Of course, Doctor,” said Lt. Curtis. She had a masters in aeronautical engineering but Rajiv's words may as well have been Martian. No matter, he was in full lecture mode and she would just have to wait until he wound down before asking another question. She nodded encouragingly.

  “You see, we need negatively charged muons to catalyze a fusion reaction within the quantum channel matrix. A muon weighs 207 times as much as an electron and can act as either a very heavy electron or a very light proton, depending of course on the muon's charge. Replace a deuterium or tritium atom's single electron with a negative muon and the 1s orbital shrinks down to only 0.2 picometers. When a pair of these atoms try to form a molecule of H2 their nuclei are brought close enough together for fusion to take place.

  “The presence of muonium, which is essentially a hydrogen molecule with the single nucleus proton replaced by a positive muon, is an indication that the muon generator is making both positive and negative muons. As a result, the reactor is making power but not at peak efficiency and there may be other side effects if allowed to run under these conditions.”

  “And have your adjustments fixed the problem, Rajiv?” Gretchen knew he liked it when she used his first name.

  “I hope so,” he said, turning back to the battery of displays, “I truly hope so.”

  “So I can tell the Captain to run the test?”

  “Yes, yes. By all means, I was ready to suggest running another test myself.”

  * * * * *

  On the bridge, the Captain was making ready to power up the ship's main systems. They had gone through this several times before, but had never reached full sustained power without an alarm sounding or a cluster of warning lights flashing.

  “Bridge, Engineering.”

  “Go Engineering.”

  “Captain, we are ready for a full-power system test. Dr. Gupta has recalibrated some of the reactor settings and is hopeful that the previous problem has been corrected.”

  “Affirmative, Engineering. Test commencing in 10.”

  The Captain activated the exterior PA system. “Attention, all personnel in the hanger space. Please proceed immediately to the closest radiation shelter, there will be an engine check in 10, repeat, 10 minutes.” The ship's power system was not supposed to produce any detectable radiation, but the last two tests had resulted in small bursts of gamma rays and some errant neutrons. Everything inside the ship was well shielded, but those outside could be exposed. The levels were probably not high enough to be dangerous but there was no sense taking any chances.

  “Attention Control,” he said, activating the ship's voice command system. “Prepare for full-power system test in 10 minutes. Verbal notifications at five and one minutes prior to test.”

  “Yes, Captain,” came the immediate reply in the androgynous voice used by the ship's computer.

  Outside, technicians and construction workers rapidly evacuated the platform surrounding the ship. Looking forward, through the ship's transparent nose, a vertical line of light could be seen marking the crack between the two closed hangar doors. The hangar was originally constructed during WWII to house Navy lighter-than-air craft. Made mostly of wood, the egg-shaped arch of the roof shell was stiffened with a series of transverse metal ribs. The building was 525 feet long, 148 feet wide and 87.5 feet high, a half scale version of similar structures built at Tillamook, Oregon, and Tustin, California.

  The huge pair of doors opened by sliding sideways in the overhead tracks that they hung from. Aside from the light leaking in from the doors, the only natural light came from the twin rows of vents along the peak of the roof. A large, imposing man-made sp
ace, housing a mysterious, otherworldly machine—a scene worthy of a James Bond movie villain, he thought to himself.

  TK in his hot-rod wheelchair might just fit that image, but Jack could not see himself in the role of Captain Nemo or Dr. Evil. His life had been full of adventures, and not a few misadventures, but he never thought that he would command a spaceship, even one sitting in a construction hangar on good old Mother Earth.

  On a whim, he addressed the ship's computer again, “Control, would it be possible for me to give you an alternate name?”

  “Of course, Captain, you may call me anything you like.”

  “I would like you to respond to the name 'Folly' from now on, if you don't mind.” Why not he thought, even TK had used the name, and it would be a lot more natural than using 'Control'.

  “Very well, you can address me as 'Folly' from now on. It does seem quite apropos.”

  Apropos? That darn computer was acting more human every day. Both sailors and airmen claimed their vessels developed their own unique personalities over time. This, however, was taking things to an extreme.

  “Attention all personnel, five minutes to power system test” the PA announced.

  Chapter 2

  Upton County, Texas, Near the Parker Ranch

  The KWTEX news van pulled up at the gate to TK Parker's ranch. In front of the idling van was a nondescript but sturdy looking gate. Beyond the gate was a dirt road that showed little sign of maintenance. Off in the distance there appeared to be a low ranch style house and farther beyond that, obscured by haze and blowing dust, a much larger structure.

  “You want to get out and look for a doorbell or should I,” asked JT, flexing his arms and back against the seat and steering wheel.

  “I'll do it,” Susan replied, “I see a box on the gate poll on my side. Besides, I need to get the kinks out of my back and stretch my legs.”

  Hopping out of the van, she arched her back and then twisted her torso from side to side. This is truly the back-end of nowhere, she thought, what would motivate a billionaire to buy such a place, let alone live here? I guess you couldn't build a space ship in your backyard in Austin or Dallas without the neighbors complaining, no matter how rich you were.

  The box had a grill, presumably hiding a speaker, and a single large button. “Here goes nothing,” she called to JT, then pressing the button and speaking loudly into the box: “Hello, anyone there?”

  “Hola, who is there?” came the answer in a female voice with a pronounced Spanish accent.

  “Hola Señora, this is Susan Write with KWTEX news. I called earlier and made an appointment to see Mr Parker.”

  “Si, please drive up to the house. I will tell Señor Parker that you are here.”

  “Thank you,” Susan said, but the only answer was a burst of static. “OK, now what happens?” she shouted to JT on the other side of the still idling van. With a clank, the gate opened and swung smoothly, almost silently aside.

  “That gate may look like crap, but it is obviously well maintained,” JT observed, adding with mock seriousness, “perhaps things around here are not what they seem.”

  “If you mean a broken down ranch in the middle of the West Texas desert scrub, I reserve judgment until we see the inside of the house. Now drive, before the gate swings back shut.”

  * * * * *

  As they pulled up to the front of the ranch house the front door opened. A middle aged Hispanic woman wearing a kitchen apron appeared in the doorway and beckoned them in. Exiting the van, JT went around to the back to get his camera rig. Then, together they approached the portal.

  “Hi, I'm Susan Write and this” Susan said, motioning to her partner, “is JT, my camera man.”

  “Welcome,” the woman said, “I am Maria, Señor Parker's housekeeper and cook. Please follow me. Señor Parker is in his study.”

  Maria led them through the living room, past a breakfast nook and adjoining family room and to the door of Parker's study. The house was much larger than it appeared from the outside, probably around 4,000 sq ft. They also noticed that all of the doors were wider than normal and that all the sills in the doorways were almost flat.

  Knocking on the study door, then opening it without waiting for a response, Maria announced them. “Señorita Write and party, Señor Parker.” Smiling, she turned and motioned them inside.

  An old man with an unruly shock of white hair looked up from the papers on his desk and waved with one hand. “Welcome” he said. There was a muted whine of electric motors and the man pivoted sideways. Then he smoothly moved around the heavy wooden desk, rolling forward to greet them. If that was not enough of a shock—they had not been warned that TK Parker was wheelchair bound—when the chair stopped in front of them Parker, wheelchair and all, stood up and extended his hand.

  Susan, news professional that she was, didn't miss a beat. She grasped the proffered hand with a firm grip and shook it, the way Texan's do. The firm handshake was something she had learned early in life. Some women just stick their hand out like a limp, dead fish when shaking hands. Susan shook hands like she meant it, like she was the other man's equal. She could see Parker sizing her up, with a twinkle in his pale blue-gray eyes.

  “Mr. Parker, I'm Susan Write from KWTEX News, and this is my cameraman Jim Taylor,” she said motioning to JT who was standing behind her, camera dangling from his left hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Jim,” Parker said. As he leaned forward to shake JT's hand the motorized chair, now balancing on two wheels, moved closer to him as if by telepathic control. “Welcome to my spread, have a seat. As you can see, I already have one.”

  As he uttered the last sentence, his wheelchair collapsed on itself, lowering him back to a seated position. Parker whirled about and reclaimed his position behind the desk.

  “Call me JT, Mr. Parker,” said the camera man. “That's some wheelchair you have there. I've never seen anything like it.”

  “Call me TK, son, everybody does. Yeah, this little beauty is an iBot. It was design back in the 00s by Dean Kamen, same guy who designed the Segway.”

  “Segway, that two wheeled, standup scooter you see mall cops whizzing around on?” asked Susan, trying to reclaim control of the conversation. It was obvious that Parker was a gear-head and JT loved gadgets. If they started talking about technology they could be here for hours.

  “Yes indeed. He made a bunch of these things—an electric, motorized wheelchair that can go from four wheels to two wheels lifting the rider in the process, and it can climb stairs too. Unfortunately, the damn things cost a fortune and they discontinued making them in 2009. Insurance companies and Medicaid didn't want to foot the bill, cheap bastards.”

  “If they were discontinued in 2009 you must have owned it for some time.”

  “No, when they were for sale I hadn't had my accident yet, but you can find nearly anything on the Internet. Managed to pick up a couple of busted ones on eBay. And given a boot full of cash, I managed to get one of the original engineers to build me a working one using the broken chairs for parts. Had him hop it up a little bit, too.

  “I'm one of the few people in the world that has a hot rod four wheel drive without owning a truck,” TK chuckled, “but I don't think you're here to talk about my wheelchair.”

  “Well, no sir,” started Susan.

  “I said call me TK, girl. No need bein' so formal.”

  “TK then. We got a tip that your wheelchair is not the only futuristic vehicle you own. Word on the street is that you are building a rocket ship in your barn.”

  “Ain't a barn, its a dirigible hanger. And it ain't a rocket ship, it's a spaceship.”

  “Dirigible hanger?” said JT.

  “Not a rocket ship?” said Susan.

  “Right” said TK.

  On Board Parker's Folly, Parker Ranch, Texas

  “Attention, power system test commencing,” announced the ship's voice, followed almost immediately by a cascade of flashing red lights and blaring klaxons.


  “Excessive radiation emissions detected, test terminated,” said the unruffled ship's voice.

  Well, at least the warning system works, thought Jack. “Engineering, Bridge. Dr. Gupta, what just happened?”

  “Well, it would appear that something different happened this time. My readings no longer indicate an excess of muonium. There is, however, a very strange indication of some anomalously heavy hydrogen atoms poisoning the fusion reaction and causing the quantum grid to generate an excess of radiation.”

  “Heavy hydrogen? I was under the impression that the ship's engines required deuterium and tritium to run.”

  “Oh no, this is much heavier than tritium,” said the ship's engineer. “This seems to be heavy enough to be hydrogen 4, quadrium. Or an atom of helium. Really quite fascinating.”

  The Captain sighed silently. To Jack it was a failed system test, to Gupta it was an interesting experimental result. “The fusion process normally makes helium, correct? And you're telling me we are now making heavier hydrogen isotopes instead?”

  “Highly unstable nuclei—hydrogen 4 through hydrogen 7—have been synthesized in the laboratory but their half-lives are on the order of a few picoseconds. What we are seeing are much longer lived atoms. I know the muon beam initiators are not making positively charged muons anymore, this new problem makes little sense.”

  “Dr. Gupta, could you tell me about the radiation emissions? What effect did this test have on the people in the area and on board?”

  “What? Oh, the radiation—anyone who was in one of the shelters or inside of the ship should be perfectly safe. Beyond a hundred meters it would not be dangerous either.”

  “That's a relief, Doctor. I take it we cannot run the ship under these conditions, could you please get back to me when we are ready for the next attempt? Bridge out.” Great, Jack thought, another delay. TK will not be pleased.

  * * * * *

  In the engineering compartment, Lt. Curtis stood staring at the flashing warning indicators and scrolling columns of numbers on the monitor readouts. Gupta was pacing back and fourth, obviously in deep thought. As she understood the problem, each muon needed to catalyze a few thousand fusion reactions to generate a usable amount of power. Since muons only lived a couple of microseconds this meant channeling the muons so they struck a sufficient number of hydrogen atoms.