Superficially, it seemed very tranquil—nothing like the bonehurting skinstretching acceleration when the shuttle lifted off. The glittering transparent cylinder of L-5 simply grew larger, slowly, then wheeled around to point at them.
The problem was that a space colony big enough to hold 4000 people has more inertia than God. If the shuttle hit the mating dimple too fast, it would fold up like an accordian. A space ship is made to take stress in the other direction.
Charlie hadn’t paid first class, but they let him up into the observation dome anyhow; professional courtesy. There were only two other people there, standing on the Velcro rug, strapped to one bar and hanging on to another.
They were a young man and woman, probably new colonists. The man was talking excitedly. The woman stared straight ahead, not listening. Her knuckles were white on the bar and her teeth were clenched. Charlie wanted to say something in sympathy, but it’s hard to talk while you’re holding your breath.
The last few meters are the worst. You can’t see over the curve of the ship’s hull, and the steering jets make a constant stutter of little bumps: left, right, forward, back. If the shuttle folded, would the dome shatter? Or just pop off.
It was all controlled by computers, of course. The pilot just sat up there in a mist of weightless sweat.
Then the low moan, almost subsonic shuddering as the shuttle’s smooth hull complained against the friction pads. Charlie waited for the ringing spang that would mean they were a little too fast: friable alloy plates under the friction pads, crumbling to absorb the energy of their forward motion; last-ditch stand.
If that didn’t stop them, they would hit a two-meter wall of solid steel, which would. It had happened once. But not this time.
“Please remain seated until pressure is equalized,” a recorded voice said. “It’s been a pleasure having you aboard.”
Charlie crawled down the pole, back to the passenger area. He walked rip, rip, rip back to his seat and obediently waited for his ears to pop. Then the side door opened and he went with the other passengers through the tube that led to the elevator. They stood on the ceiling. Someone had laboriously scratched a graffito on the metal wall:
Stuck on this lift for hours, perforce;
This lift that cost a million bucks.
There’s no such thing as centrifugal force;
L-5 sucks.
Thirty more weightless seconds as they slid to the ground. There were a couple of dozen people waiting on the loading platform.
Charlie stepped out into the smell of orange blossoms and newly-mown grass. He was home.
“Charlie! Hey, over here.” Young man standing by a tandem bicycle. Charlie squeezed both his hands and then jumped on the back seat. “Drink.”
“Did you get—”
“Drink. Then talk.” They glided down the smooth macadam road toward town.
The bar was just a rain canopy over some tables and chairs, overlooking the lake in the center of town. No bartender; you went to the service table and punched in your credit number, then chose wine or fruit juice; with or without vacuum-distilled raw alcohol. They talked about shuttle nerves awhile, then:
“What you get from Connors?”
“Words, not much. I’ll give a full report at the meeting tonight. Looks like we won’t even get on the ballot, though.”
“Now isn’t that what we said was going to happen? We shoulda gone with Francois Petain’s idea.”
“Too risky.” Petain’s plan had been to tell Death Valley they had to shut down the laser for repairs. Not tell the groundhogs about the signal at all, just answer it. “If they found out they’d sue us down to our teeth.”
The man shook his head. “I’ll never understand ground-hogs.”
“Not your job.” Charlie was an Earth-born, Earth-trained psychologist. “Nobody born here ever could.”
“Maybe so.” He stood up. “Thanks for the drink; I’ve gotta get back to work. You know to call Dr. Bemis before the meeting?”
“Yeah. There was a message at the Cape.”
“She has a surprise for you.”
“Doesn’t she always? You clowns never do anything around here until I leave.”
All Abigail Bemis would say over the phone was that Charlie should come to her place for dinner; she’d prep him for the meeting.
“That was good, Ab. Can’t afford real food on Earth.”
She laughed and stacked the plates in the cleaner, then drew two cups of coffee. She laughed again when she sat down. Stocky, white-haired woman with bright eyes in a sea of wrinkles.
“You’re in a jolly mood tonight.”
“Yep. It’s expectation.”
“Johnny said you had a surprise.”
“Hooboy, he doesn’t know half. So you didn’t get anywhere with the Senator.”
“No. Even less than I expected. What’s the secret?”
“Connors is a nice-hearted boy. He’s done a lot for us.
“Come on, Ab. What is it?”
“He’s right. Shut off the groundhogs’ TV for twenty minutes and they’d have another Revolution on their hands.”
“Ab …”
“We’re going to send the message.”
“Sure. I figured we would. Using Farside at whatever wattage we’ve got. If we’re lucky—”
“Nope. Not enough power.”
Charlie stirred a half-spoon of sugar into his coffee. “You plan to … defy Connors?”
“Fuzz Connors. We’re not going to use radio at all.”
“Visible light? Infra?”
“We’re going to hand-carry it. In Daedalus.”
Charlie’s coffee cup was halfway to his mouth. He spilled a great deal.
“Here, have a napkin.”
June 2040
From A Short History Of the Old Order (Freeman Press, 2040):
“… and if you think that was a waste, consider Project Daedalus.
“This was the first big space thing after L-5. Now L-5 worked out all right, because it was practical. But Daedalus (named from a Greek god who could fly)—that was a clear-cut case of throwing money down the rat-hole.
“These scientists in 2016 talked the bourgeoisie into paying for a trip to another star! It was going to take over a hundred years—but the scientists were going to have babies along the way, and train them to be scientists (whether they wanted to or not!).
“They were going to use all the old H-bombs for fuel—as if we might not need the fuel some day right here on Earth. What if L-5 decided they didn’t like us and shut off the power beam?
“Daedalus was supposed to be a spaceship almost a kilometer long! Most of it was manufactured in space, from Moon stuff, but a lot of it—the most expensive part, you bet—had to be boosted from Earth.
“They almost got it built, but then came the Breakup and the People’s Revolution. No way in hell the People were going to let them have those H-bombs, not sitting right over our heads like that.
“So we left the H-bombs in Helsinki and the space freeks went back to doing what they’re supposed to do. Every year they petition to get those H-bombs, but every year the Will of the People says no.
“That space ship is still up there, a skytrillion dollar boondoggle. As a monument to bourgeoisie folly, it’s worse than the Pyramids!!”
February 2075
“So the Scylla probe is just a ruse, to get the fuel—”
“Oh no, not really.” She slid a blue-covered folder to him. “We’re still going to Scylla. Scoop up a few megatons of degenerate anti-matter. And a similar amount of degenerate matter from Charybdis.
“We don’t plan a generation ship, Charlie. The hydrogen fuel will get us out there; once there, it’ll power the magnetic bottles to hold the real fuel.”
“Total annihilation of matter,” Charlie said.
“That’s right. Em-cee-squared to the ninth decimal place. We aren’t talking about centuries to get to 61 Cygni. Nine years, there and back.”
“The groundhogs aren’t going to like it. All the bad feeling about the original Daedalus—”
“Fuzz the groundhogs. We’ll do everything we said we’d do with their precious H-bombs: go out to Scylla, get some antimatter, and bring it back. Just taking a long way back.”
“You don’t want to just tell them that’s what we’re going to do? No skin off …”
She shook her head and laughed again, this time a little bitterly. “You didn’t read the editorial in Peoplepost this morning, did you?”
“I was too busy.”
“So am I, boy; too busy for that drik. One of my staff brought it in, though.”
“It’s about Daedalus?”
“No … it concerns 61 Cygni. How the crazy scientists want to let those boogers know there’s life on Earth.”
“They’ll come make people-burgers out of us.”
“Something like that.”
Over three thousand people sat on the hillside, a “natural” amphitheatre fashioned of moon dirt and Earth grass. There was an incredible din, everyone talking at once: Dr. Bemis had just told them about the 61 Cygni expedition.
On about the tenth “Quiet, please,” Bemis was able to continue. “So you can see why we didn’t simply broadcast this meeting. Earth would pick it up. Likewise, there are no groundhog media on L-5 right now. They were rotated back to Earth and the shuttle with their replacements needed repairs at the Cape. The other two shuttles are here.
“So I’m asking all of you—and all of your brethren who had to stay at their jobs—to keep secret the biggest thing since Isabella hocked her jewels. Until we lift.
“Now Dr. Leventhal, who’s chief of our social sciences section, wants to talk to you about selecting the crew.”
Charlie hated public speaking. In this setting, he felt like a Christian on the way to being catfood. He smoothed out his damp notes on the podium.
“Uh, basic problem.” A thousand people asked him to speak up. He adjusted the microphone.
“The basic problem is, we have space for about a thousand people. Probably more than one out of four want to go.”
Loud murmur of assent. “And we don’t want to be despotic about choosing … but I’ve set up certain guidelines, and Dr. Bemis agrees with them.
“Nobody should plan on going if he or she needs sophisticated medical care, obviously. Same toke, few very old people will be considered.”
Almost inaudibly, Abigail said, “Sixty-four isn’t very old, Charlie. I’m going.” She hadn’t said anything earlier.
He continued, looking at Bemis. “Second, we must leave behind those people who are absolutely necessary for the maintenance of L-5. Including the power station.” She smiled at him.
“We don’t want to split up mating pairs, not for, well, nine years plus … but neither will we take children.” He waited for the commotion to die down. “On this mission, children are baggage. You’ll have to find foster parents for them. Maybe they’ll go on the next trip.
“Because we can’t afford baggage. We don’t know what’s waiting for us at 61 Cygni—a thousand people sounds like a lot, but it isn’t. Not when you consider that we need a cross-section of all human knowledge, all human abilities. It may turn out that a person who can sing madrigals will be more important than a plasma physicist. No way of knowing ahead of time.”
The 4,000 people did manage to keep it secret, not so much out of strength of character as from a deep-seated paranoia about Earth and Earthlings.
And Senator Connors’ Tricentennial actually came to their aid.
Although there was “One World,” ruled by “The Will of the People,” some regions had more clout than others, and nationalism was by no means dead. This was one factor.
Another factor was the way the groundhogs felt about the thermonuclear bombs stockpiled in Helsinki. All antiques; mostly a century or more old. The scientists said they were perfectly safe, but you know how that goes.
The bombs still technically belonged to the countries that had surrendered them, nine out of ten split between North America and Russia. The tenth remaining was divided among 42 other countries. They all got together every few years to argue about what to do with the damned things. Everybody wanted to get rid of them in some useful way, but nobody wanted to put up the capital.
Charlie Leventhal’s proposal was simple. L-5 would provide bankroll, materials, and personnel. On a barren rock in the Norwegian Sea they would take apart the old bombs, one at a time, and turn them into uniform fuel capsules for the Daedalus craft.
The Scylla/Charybdis probe would be timed to honor both the major spacefaring countries. Renamed the John F. Kennedy, it would leave Earth orbit on America’s Tricentennial. The craft would accelerate halfway to the double star system at one gee, then flip and slow down at the same rate. It would use a magnetic scoop to gather antimatter from Scylla. On May Day, 2077, it would again be renamed, being the Leonid I. Brezhnev for the return trip. For safety’s sake, the antimatter would be delivered to a lunar research station, near Farside. L-5 scientists claimed that harnessing the energy from total annihilation of matter would make a heaven on Earth.
Most people doubted that, but looked forward to the fireworks.
January 2076
“The hell with that!” Charlie was livid. “I—I just won’t do it. Won’t!”
“You’re the only one—”
“That’s not true. Ab, you know it.” Charlie paced from wall to wall of her office cubicle. “There are dozens of people who can run L-5. Better than I can.”
“Not better, Charlie.”
He stopped in front of her desk, leaned over. “Come on, Ab. There’s only one logical person to stay behind and run things. Not only has she proven herself in the position, but she’s too old to—”
“That kind of drik I don’t have to listen to.”
“Now, Ab …”
“No, you listen to me. I was an infant when we started building Daedalus; worked on it as a girl and a young woman.
“I could take you out there in a shuttle and show you the rivets that I put in, myself. A half-century ago.”
“That’s my—”
“I earned my ticket, Charlie.” Her voice softened. “Age is a factor, yes. This is only the first trip of many—and when it comes back, I will be too old. You’ll just be in your prime … and with over twenty years of experience as Coordinator, I don’t doubt they’ll make you captain of the next—”
“I don’t want to be captain. I don’t want to be Coordinator. I just want to go!”
“You and three thousand other people.”
“And of the thousand that don’t want to go, or can’t, there isn’t one person who could serve as Coordinator? I could name you—”
“That’s not the point. There’s no one on L-5 who has anywhere near the influence, the connections, you have on Earth. No one who understands groundhogs as well.”
“That’s racism, Ab. Groundhogs are just like you and me.”
“Some of them. I don’t see you going Earthside every chance you can get … what, you like the view up here? You like living in a can?”
He didn’t have a ready answer for that. Ab continued: “Whoever’s Coordinator is going to have to do some tall explaining, trying to keep things smooth between L-5 and Earth. That’s been your life’s work, Charlie. And you’re also known and respected here. You’re the only logical choice.”
“I’m not arguing with your logic.”
“I know.” Neither of them had to mention the document, signed by Charlie, among others, that gave Dr. Bemis final authority in selecting the crew for Daedalus/ Kennedy/Brezhnev. “Try not to hate me too much, Charlie. I have to do what’s best for my people. All of my people.”
Charlie glared at her for a long moment and left.
June 2076
From Fax & Pix, 4 June 2076:
SPACE FARM LEAVES FOR
STARS NEXT MONTH
1. The John F. Kennedy, that goes to Scylla
/Charybdis next month, is like a little L-5 with bombs up its tail (see pix upleft, upright).
The trip’s twenty months. They could either take a few people and fill the thing up with food, air, and water—or take a lot of people inside a closed ecology, like L-5.
They could’ve gotten by with only a couple hundred people, to run the farms and stuff. But almost all the space freeks wanted to go. They’re used to living that way, anyhow (and they never get to go anyplace).
When they get back, the farms will be used as a starter for L-4, like L-5 but smaller at first, and on the other side of the Moon (pic downleft).
2. For other Tricentennial fax & pix, see bacover.
July 2076
Charlie was just finishing up a week on Earth the day the John F. Kennedy was launched. Tired of being interviewed, he slipped away from the media lounge at the Cape shuttleport. His white clearance card got him out onto the landing strip, alone.
The midnight shuttle was being fueled at the far end of the strip, gleaming pink-white in the last light from the setting sun. Its image twisted and danced in the shimmering heat that radiated from the tarmac. The smell of the soft tar was indelibly associated in his mind with leave-taking, relief.
He walked to the middle of the strip and checked his watch. Five minutes. He lit a cigarette and threw it away. He rechecked his mental calculations; the flight would start low in the southwest. He blocked out the sun with a raised hand. What would 150 bombs per second look like? For the media they were called fuel capsules. The people who had carefully assembled them and gently lifted them to orbit and installed them in the tanks, they called them bombs. Ten times the brightness of a full moon, they had said. On L-5 you weren’t supposed to look toward it without a dark filter.
No warm-up; it suddenly appeared, impossibly brilliant rainbow speck just over the horizon. It gleamed for several minutes, then dimmed slightly with the haze, and slipped away.
Most of the United States wouldn’t see it until it came around again, some two hours later, turning night into day, competing with local pyrotechnic displays. Then every couple of hours after that. Charlie would see it once more, then get on the shuttle. And finally stop having to call it by the name of a dead politician.