CHAPTER 19 What is the point in vilifying all politicians or bashing bureaucrats? After all, waste, fraud, and abuse can never be totally eliminated from human commerce, nor can vanity, ambition, and hatred be wiped out of human nature. -- Allen Thornton, Laws of the Jungle
15 January Gibbon moved in for the kill. He had done it before and was master of the art. The Space Migration Society dangled out there in the midwest like a ripe apple ready to be plucked. Now he saw a sign of decay on the stem and jumped to exploit it. "Theodore, Theodore, Theodore," he murmured into the telephone, his voice as deep and understanding and filled with empathy as it could be. "I know we've had our differences in the past, but I'm quite honored that you would turn to me in your time of need." "It's so hard to ask for help," the voice at the other end of the line said in a halting tone. "I've run SMS for fifteen years and I've watched it grow to ten thousand members and then I watched it just sit there." "I understand. It's difficult for anyone to work with such devotion and not see his dreams pan out. I'll bet you expected to be living in orbit by now." Gibbon permitted a wan smile to cross his face. He was alone in the darkness of his library. "Then I met Genevieve. I don't know. She messed my mind up. And with the membership starting to decline..." Gibbon listened without comment to Theodore's lament, mutely pleased that his strategy had succeeded. The National Organisation of Space Supporters, with its four hundred thousand members, held its annual convention in Cleveland last Labor Day. Gibbon steered the con committee toward a space migration theme, and NOSS offered new members a number of snazzy gifts for joining, including an 8 X 10 color print (suitable for framing) of a proposed space habitat cribbed from a design by an Arizona architect, a ten-color embroidered arm patch, and a photo ID card made and laminated right there at the convention. sms members joined in droves, many not bothering to renew their memberships in the rival organization. It offered no arm patches. In fact, its only draw was an opportunity to place money into a growth fund earmarked for construction of a spaceship. Gibbon, after leaching off SMS members, aimed for the weak spot of the fund: Theodore Straite. "Oh, yes," Gibbon softly interjected in the middle of a recitation of Theodore's woes. "I remember Genevieve. You know, I think she made a pass at me at that convention. Imagine! A man of my age." "She was so beautiful, but she had these... appetites. I couldn't concentrate on my job, on the newsletter, on the club. I got fired. Pretty soon, I started dipping into the mutual fund--" "Theodore!" Gibbon sounded horrified. "That fund was a sacred trust, the future of humanity." The voice half a continent away sobbed in anguish. "We went through it in weeks. She just... It went." The older man heard inarticulate noises over the line. He waited until he adjudged the man's suffering to be at its peak, then said, "Theodore, you know I don't own or operate NOSS, but I am on their advisory panel. They've helped out troubled clubs in the past, usually by offering to take on members at no charge for a full year, then asking if they would like to renew. How many members do you have?" "Now? Less than six thousand. Plus another two thousand who just subscribe to the newsletter." Gibbon already knew the numbers -- Genevieve had kept him apprised every step of the way. "I'm certain I can convince the board to relieve you of that burden and of any... personal liability you may have incurred as far as membership is concerned. I'm afraid they won't be able to do anything about that depleted mutual fund, though. I know a fine attorney in Kansas City who handles embezzlement cases. I'll include his number when I express a package to you with the papers for membership conversion." "Thank you," Theodore said almost imperceptibly. "God bless you. You've kept the torch burning all these years when so many weaker... people would have let it go out." "That's very poetic, my dear friend, very poetic. The movement needs more poets. Write you feelings down in a letter of apology and I'll see that they run it in the next issue of our journal." Thanking him again, Theodore rung off. Gibbon placed the telephone handpiece back in its elegant cradle and smiled. The Space Migration Society clung on as the last holdout. Now every major space group will have been absorbed into the structure of NOSS. That accomplished, his attention returned to his lead article for the next NOSS Journal, an analysis of the Interplanetary Treaty by its author. Since the article would come out after the UN vote, he wrote of it as if it had passed already. It pleased him, this pretense, because he possessed the confidence that it would be so, and he did not believe in jinxes. He punched in the command to save his work and received a curious message:
LOW ON MEMORY
Evangeline entered with a tray of hors d'oeuvres-sized sandwiches and sought to leave it beside his desk. "Go away, Angie!" he snapped. "Why, what's wrong, Barrett?" "Nothing you'd understand." He tapped at the keys. "According to this, I have only three hundred seventy megabytes used up on this disc and yet I'm getting an 'out of memory' message." He looked up at her. "You don't let anyone use this while I'm out, do you?" Baffled, she said, "Why, no." "And you haven't used it?" She looked flattered. "Barrett, you know machines and I don't get along." "Well, it's damn' curious, that's all. I should have nearly two hundred megs left." He popped one of the tiny triangular sandwiches in his mouth and almost immediately spat it out. "What in God's name is this?" "Paté, Barrett." "It is not!" He sniffed at it. "It's cat food!" Evangeline blushed frightfully and stammered, "I must have gotten the cans mixed..." "Oh, just get out! You can see why no one ever married a scatterbrain such as--" He paused, took a deep breath, and said, "Angie, I'm going to go rinse my mouth out, and then I require uninterrupted silence for the rest of the day. Can you remember that?" "Yes, Barrett," she whispered, head down. * * * Tammy, a pilot since age fourteen, believed in gremlins. At least, she harbored a deep-seated uneasiness about the complexity of the Orbiter and the competence of the thousands of employees and contractors involved in maintaining and refurbishing the five craft space fleet. The last three weeks onboard Constitution were clouded not only by her run-in with Woolsey, but by persistent nightmares. Less of Challenger as often as of a multitude of other disasters. In one, she stood on the back porch of her parent's rural home in the hills overlooking Los Gatos. Overhead flew a huge flying-wing aircraft with hundreds of windows delineating three or four levels of seats. Incredibly detailed and colored with the alternatively subtle and intense colors of her dreams, the airplane slowly, ponderously drifted toward the town below, trailing a thick black cloud of smoke from an engine pod. She could do nothing to stop it. She could only watch as the magnificent flying machine crumpled into the center of town and burst into flames. Even at that distance, the heat seared the flesh of her dream body. In another, she stood on an unfamiliar desert plain to watch a long, fluted cylinder lined with portholes -- an Art Deco spaceship out of an old comic book -- slowly crash in flames like the Hindenberg. The crashes were always in agonizing slow motion, as if the machines were so huge that relationship between size and the acceleration of gravity and resistance of the atmosphere imparted a dreamlike languor to the disaster. She assured her troubled mind on waking that they were, after all, just dreams. She could handle dreams after awakening, but the feeling of helpless dread while she slept took its toll on her attitude and outlook. Woolsey, for his part, behaved as if nothing had happened. He was courteous and quick with a smile at first. The other four crew members shunned him, relegating the lawmaker to the rear of the salsa where he performed his makework assignment of administering nutrients to the zero-g hydroponic system. The South American Laboratory for Space Agriculture -- after more than three weeks in orbit -- possessed a primordial, jungle-like serenity that the astronauts, even Woolsey, enjoyed. Rain forest plants grew willy-nilly in every direction, unbound from the twin pulls of earthly gravity and sunlight. Dense greens, vibrant reds, and lush yellows lined the bulkheads. Reis could not muster the self-control required to treat her attacker with civility, so she avoided him whenever possible. As the days turned to weeks on the Enduro flight, a persistent cabin fever slowly took hold of her. "Tammy?" Franck asked, approaching her work station at the forward end of the salsa. "What?" she said in a startled, angry tone. Franck did not cringe. He was used to this by now. "Fuel cell number three is on the blink. The hydroxide's overheating." "So what else is new?" She pounded a fist against the bulkhead, sending a reverberating thud throughout the lab. At the far end, nearly hidden amid the foliage, Woolsey glanced toward them, then back to his work. "Tammy," Jon said softly. "We've got just a few days left. He's kept away from you. When we get back to KSC, we'll figure out what to do. Just keep cool." She nodded agreement, though rather than cool, Tammy smoldered like an incipient prairie fire. * * * The time had come. Barry Gibbon mounted the dais in the arching cavern that housed the United Nations General Assembly. Nearly two hundred countries were represented by the tide of faces of all colors and types. Hundreds more spectators lined the far reaches of the chamber. He revealed no trace of disappointment at the meager number of news cameras. The masses did not need to know what was about to transpire. They would learn soon enough, though a deep and true awareness would only come years hence. Gibbon walked at a deliberate pace, not from any infirmity of age, but from a somber sense of history and a desire to savor his destiny. He held in his hand a copy of the treaty, noting that the desks of the ambassadors all bore the white rectangles of their own copies. He spoke slowly, both for the sake of drama and the convenience of the interpreters. "Ladies and gentlemen, representatives of all the free and democratic nations of Planet Earth." He knew the ambassadors believed that, even though practically none of them represented nations that were either. "Today we stand on the threshold of a new age, a new frontier, a new challenge to the collective wisdom of the human race. Within the next three decades -- well within your lives and the lives of your children, though probably not within mine -- humanity will grow past its infancy in the cradle of Earth to reach out to other planets. "We shall inhabit the regions above the Earth and return to the Moon not as jubilant, flag-planting winners of some infantile contest but as united workers following a rationally directed common goal of human expansion and exploration. The great masses of humanity will gaze up into the night sky and know that you, their leaders, have chosen the wisest, freest path for mankind to follow: free of competition, free of duplicated effort, free of strife, free of greed, free of exploitation. In the quest to sail this new sea, the nations of the world have a chance to unite for a purpose that transcends all boundaries of nation, race, and creed." Gibbon cleared his throat, regretting the necessity and hoping it did not mess up his tempo. Gazing out at the plain of faces, he noted smugly that he held their rapt attention. They rarely heard much more than jingoistic bluster, so his message of hope carried its impact throughout the chamber. "The Security Council has approved UN Resolution Thirteen Ninety-Three, introduced by twenty-two nations, that is known as the Interplanetary Treaty, from which I now read: " 'We, the Nations of the world, United, do hereby resolve that one year from the signing of this Treaty, all programs of space exploration, colonization, and development by signatory nations shall fall under the exclusive control of the United Nations. Further, that all spacecraft, launch systems and facilities, and personnel shall operate within the purview and coordination of the Security Council and that the Council shall form an United Nations Interplanetary Treaty Organization to administer the quotidian functions of the united space program.' " Gibbon read the entire eight page resolution, which covered such minutiæ as the existing launch sites that would immediately fall under UN jurisdiction and what compensation current satellite cartels would receive for the internationalization of their spacecraft. He finished with the closing paragraph: " 'Resolved, therefore, that the United Nations shall be truly and perfectly united in their quest to create an United Solar System wherein all share the benefits of space exploration and none shall profit by its exploitation. In the name of, and for the sake of, all humanity and its posterity, so mote it be.' " There was a momentary silence while the interpreters finished reading their own copies of the text. Then the ambassadors began to applaud. It was polite, at first, but then built with the assistance of some vociferous members of the visitor's balcony. Looking pleased, humbly honored, and suddenly venerably frail, Barry Gibbon acknowledged the applause and stepped down from the dais. The Secretary General of the UN took her position at the podium and called for discussion of the resolution. Hearing no requests, she called for a vote. Leaving the center stage, Gibbon at last allowed himself a smile of triumph. This was the pinnacle of his success, this was all he strove to achieve. Now, the nations of the world would speak to the stars with one voice, and that voice would be his. Goodness, he thought with amusement, could that be a touch of hubris? * * * He made certain that he was in place in a news room for the signing of the Treaty. His organization had set up an interview on A.M. United States, the morning talk show for the Global Satellite Network. The hostess, Marilyn Jordan, adored Gibbon and his elderly grace and wit, and hung on his every word. "We are so honored to have you with us, Dr. Gibbon," she said, brushing a strand of her honey-blond hair over her ear and leaning toward him on an elbow. Her turquoise eyes gazed at him with wide admiration. "How does it feel to be part of such a momentous occasion?" Gibbon smiled. "I'm honored to give whatever small assistance I can to the brave men and women who will go forth into the unknown. Now, they will go forward with a common purpose, united under a single banner." "That's been important to you, hasn't it? You've fought waste in the space program for years with your opposition to quick-fix efforts at space colonization." "Oh, yes," he said, crossing his legs and settling comfortably into the seat. "It is no great accomplishment to send a multitude of bodies into orbit using half-century-old technology. NASA's privilege and gift to humankind was its boundless ability to push ever forward the limits of technology. We may call it a virtue that NASA has never put more than eight people into space for more than two weeks at a time, and now only five for the month-long Enduro flight; the pointless and excessive cost of pampering so-called "colonists" is money that might as well be shoveled into a rocket and fired into the sun for all the good it does in promoting humanity's future. "When the time comes for humanity to venture into space colonization -- as it will within the next thirty years -- NASA's rôle shall be to develop the most advanced, technologically superb living accommodations for those few brave souls, not some cheap tin can rattling around the Earth like the first shack of an orbital shantytown." "Will NASA exist under your treaty?" Gibbon let an embarrassed chuckle escape. "Good heavens, Marilyn, it isn't my treaty! It's the legacy of an entire civilization! I just gave the treaty the input of the hundreds of thousands who are members of the National Organisation of Space Supporters. And as far as NASA goes, it will be stronger than ever as the American branch of UNITO. No longer will it waste resources in pointless 'firsts' or lose lives in the dangerously ludicrous attempt to be space truckers. Now they will have a single purpose which they may pursue with singular dedication." "Inspiring, Dr. Gibbon. And now we have a surprise for you." She touched her ear, listening to instructions from the sound booth. "Yes, we have contact with some people you know who will be witness to the historic vote." Gibbon raised an eyebrow. He disliked anything that smacked of a plan other than that of his own devising. "Hello Constitution!" she said, raising her voice as if to compensate for their distance. "Hello Marilyn," crackled the voice of Scott Boyd. "And hello Dr. Gibbon and everyone on the blue planet." Gibbon hid his annoyance at the intrusion. Glancing at the monitor, he saw that the camera was now on Jordan with the crew of Constitution inset at the lower right. "Tammy Reis," Jordan said. "I understand that today is an important day for you. Not only is the UN set to sign the Interplanetary Treaty, but it's also your birthday, isn't it?" The astronaut gazed at the camera with a grim expression. "I was born the day three astronauts died in a burning space capsule. Now on this same date, another traged--" Too-convenient static broke up her last few words. She appeared unaware. Off-camera, Gibbon smiled. Fate, or someone controlling the NASA feed, had silenced her dissent. He knew she opposed the Treaty. He considered her his only partial failure. That led him to think about the Crockett boy. He banished the concern from his mind when he heard Jordan say, "I understand, Dr. Gibbon, that shuttle commander Reis is one of your protégés, and that Oregon congressman Woolsey is the son of a very good friend of yours, Senator Woolsey of Utah." "Indeed yes, he is," Gibbon said. "Good morning, Lud. How are they treating you up there?" "Just fine, Barry!" His voice came through full of cheer and enthusiasm. "They have me doing everything around here, including donating about a gallon of blood to the cause of science. Not to mention that Lt. Comdr. Boyd has promoted me to Permanent Latrine Orderly." "Well, I'm glad you made it into orbit, Lud." "I am, too, but I'm only here as a representative of the American people and I feel their hopes and dreams riding with me. And now all the people of the Earth can share in this dream. The Interplanetary Treaty, thanks to you, poises us on the brink of a great leap forward for the human race. I think it is appropriate that the word 'humanity' has imbedded in it the word 'Unity,' don't you?" The camera switched to Gibbon, who smiled with a gracious inclination of his balding head. "You know I do, Lud, my boy. Unity and peace and harmony among the planets." "What a lovely sentiment," Jordan said, turning toward the camera as it zoomed slowly in on her face. "Next up on our show, a look at spring fashions with"--she touched her ear again--"Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Gibbon, Lt. Comdr. Boyd. I've just been told that the vote of the General Assembly is one-hundred thirty-eight to forty-one with seven abstentions... The Interplanetary Treaty is now interplanetary law!" The studio audience applauded after a bewildered pause. Most of them had no idea what had just occurred. Two hundred miles above the Earth, Tammy Reis knew. She turned and kicked away from the mid-deck to retreat to the flight deck and spent a long moment staring at the Gobi desert passing over her head. It looked as bleak and barren as the emptiness in what was once her soul.
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