Chapter 33: Kings of the High Frontier



CHAPTER 33

The universal regard for money is the one hopeful fact in our civilization, the one sound spot in
our social conscience. Money is the most important thing in the world. It represents health,
strength, honour, generosity, and beauty...
-- George Bernard Shaw, Major Barbara

14 June
The failure of Aurora passed with little notice except in the commercial space
newsletters. Aviation Week ran a paragraph about it that week, and the
following week included a letter from Barry Gibbon in which he wrote: "The failure of this
minor-league attempt to capitalize on the heart-rending tragedy of Constitution is
sufficient proof that space travel is a dangerous undertaking, and that the UN is correct in its
decision to assert international control over this new wilderness. Because of these dangers, it is
only proper that the environment of outer space be preserved and that access be permitted only
for the good of humanity, not for private gain. And most certainly not for rubbernecking tourists
from the millionaire élite."
The Private Space Journal, in contrast, ran a twelve page special
supplement with photos and an exhaustive analysis of the failure. Thom Brodsky managed to
paint the upset in the best possible light, beginning with the headline "Inherent Safety of
Starblazer Design Proven."
It was big news in Mojave, too. The local paper ran a front-page headline, which Larry
Poubelle was reading when Chemar shoved open their office door.
"You're not going to believe this!" she said.
"I might," he said, lowering the paper to eye her. She was dressed in aquamarine shorts with
a matching floral print Hawaiian shirt knotted at the waist and unbuttoned halfway to her navel.
The colors accentuated her dark skin and made her golden eyes seem even brighter and more
piercing. "I'm a fairly credulous fellow. I believe it when you say you love me for my mind and
not my money."
"Take it from me." She signaled to somebody outside in the shimmering noontime heat.
"Your mind is about to bring in a truckload of money." She pulled a folded envelope from the
back pocket of her shorts as one of their workers dragged in a sack of mail as big as a St.
Bernard.
"It started to build right after Constitution. Then I found out why." She unfolded the
letter to read aloud. "This is from a kid whose letterhead reads 'From Wapakoneta, Ohio, the
Birthplace of the First Man on the Moon.' It starts out, 'Dear Mr. and Mrs. Poubelle' "--she
lowered the page to peer at Larry and raise a shapely eyebrow--"I already like the kid. 'I saw you
on the news when you announced that you would be building an X-15 to fly into Space.' It's cute
how it's capitalized. 'I sent in five dollars and got all sorts of neat stuff from you. I am eleven
years old and I wanted to be an astronaut since I can remember. Then the Space Shuttle
exploded and killed everyone and I felt really really sad like we would never be able to go into
Space again. The people who died were my heroes. I know it will cost a lot of money to rebuild
the Space Center, but my Dad says they'll do it by turning the screws a little tighter on
everybody's kahonies. He said kahonies were how they collected taxes, so I guess the Shuttle
will be paid for.'
"Isn't this priceless?" she asked.
"Sweetheart, we get those every day." He half-smiled. "Except for the kahonies,
maybe."
"Not like this one, you don't. 'But then I thought, what about you? Your newsletter said you
were supported by donations and sales and I wanted to help. So I figured I'd tell all my friends
that buying a Nomad souvenir was cooler than motorskates or a six-pack of soda. I
booted up my almanac disc and checked. Makeup and stuff is a forty-billion dollar business.
Toys are fifty billion. Soft drinks are sixty billion! So I figured if I could get a whole lot of kids
to buy your stuff instead of other stuff, they'd still get neat things, but Nomad would get
the money.' "
Poubelle put his feet up on the desk and leaned back in the chair, absent-mindedly flicking
the lighter in his finger.
"Here's the part," she said, pointing a long-nailed finger toward the mail sack, "responsible
for that. 'My Dad's computer has a fax modem, and my whole family is on The Net, so I
started posting messages wherever I could and I faxed letters to newspapers and magazines. My
Mom says we're a nation of spenders, not savers, so I said that if everyone's going to spend, they
might as well spend their money on something really important. They'll still get neat stuff for
their money, but they'd also get to see Nomad do what the Space Shuttle can't right now.
I think the Astronauts and the Vice President and our Governor would have wanted it that way.'
"
Chemar lowered the letter. "This kid"--she glanced at the bottom of the second page--"Darla
Jean Corbett, is the one responsible for the quadrupling of our donations."
He gave her a look. "Constitution had something to do with it."
She shook her head. "That shook people up. This girl directed whatever they felt -- grief,
anger, betrayal, hopelessness -- into helping us. This sack is just a tenth of today's mail. Well
over half of the letters mention this kid or that they read or heard her reasoning. I've had to hire
three more people to process the checks, and the manufacturers are having trouble keeping up
our inventory." She gazed at him with renewed vigor, as if she had just climbed a mountain to
see an incredible vista.
"We're going to do it, mon homme. We're going to light that candle."
"I never doubted that. I'd have paid for it myself."
"It's not the money," she said, waving a lithe arm toward the sack. "It's the support. The
people are on our side. Every one of those envelopes contains a vote in our favor. Every passing
day makes it tougher for the government to denounce us."
Poubelle jerked a thumb toward the bullet-pierced robot arm mounted on a wall-plaque.
"It's not denunciation I'm concerned about."

Proceed to Chapter 34
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