some wind farm lacks wind. Or anywhere an equipment failure creates a power shortfall. And by beaming to the downlink station nearest the point of need, we reduce stress on the national grid."
"If I may summarize,” the first FSO had jumped back in. What the hell? Were they tag-teaming him? “A gigawatt of focused energy ‘directed’ at the ground. Steerable beams. It could be a weapon."
"And any satellite launch could become a ballistic missile aimed at the ground,” Marcus had snapped in frustration, only to be told he was not being helpful.
To the degree Marcus had ever had control of the session, that was when he lost it. From then until the break, the FSOs had revisited, with painful circumlocution, perhaps every criticism anyone ever made about the U.S., back to those (idiots, in Marcus's opinion) who had objected to American unilateralism in the capture of Phoebe. Diverting a space object, let alone using a nuclear-powered thruster for the dormant comet's final orbital insertion, could be construed as a violation, at least in spirit, of the Outer Space Treaty. (Excuse me: the Treaty on Principles Governing the Activities of States in the Exploration and Use of Outer Space, including the Moon and Other Celestial Bodies.)
In what universe was doing nothing, and maybe having Phoebe hit Earth, the preferred course? The same universe, evidently, where one listened to members of the energy cartels, and the cartels’ most dependent and coercible customers, and Third World ankle biters who did not care how bad things got for them as long as they could get in a dig at the United States, and—
Marcus stopped himself mid-mental rant. Reliving the experience accomplished nothing. Besides, his geopolitical opinions were doubtless as well-founded as the engineering opinions of a roomful of diplomats.
"Hey, Judson."
Marcus turned around. One of the FSOs stood in the break-room entrance. Somebody Ryerson. No, Ryerson Smith. “Yes?"
"We're ready to resume,” Smith said.
Yay! “Okay. I'll be right—"
When Marcus's cell rang, the caller was not in his directory. He did not recognize the number that came up instead of a name. Not even the area code. “I should get this,” he said.
"You know where to find us.” Smith headed down the corridor.
Taking the call, Marcus did not recognize the face projected from the cell display. She wasn't someone he would forget, not with those high cheekbones, chiseled features, hazel eyes, and full lips. Her hair, a rich brown, worn shoulder length, nicely framed her face. Forty-ish: about his age. And she looked mad .
Mad about what? he wondered. He said, cautiously, “Hello."
"Marcus Judson?"
He nodded.
"Valerie Clayburn. I'm calling about the powersat."
While she spoke he had queried her area code. West Virginia? “Did you see me on the 3-V news?” he guessed. Damn town meetings.
"Hardly,” she snipped. A bit of glower added, aren't we full of ourselves . “I Googled ‘powersat NASA program manager’ and got your boss. She gave me this number."
"I'm due back in a meeting, Ms. Clayburn. May I ask what this is about?"
"It's Dr. Clayburn, and I'm calling to schedule a meeting."
Doctor of what? But Ellen had vetted the woman, supposedly, and he had a flexible day coming up. “I have some time open next Monday morning. Will fifteen minutes suffice? Telecon, or will you be coming to my office in Maryland?"
"Fifteen minutes?” She laughed. “Not even close, and anyway, you need to come out here. But Monday works."
"Why there—and where is that, by the way?"
" Here is the Green Bank Observatory. And why here? Trust me, it'll make sense when you see the place."
Could she be any stingier with information? He had neither the time nor the inclination to play twenty questions. “I've got to go,” he told her. “I'll get back to you."
"I'll be here,” she said, and broke the connection.
* * * *
His datasheet folded in quarters because that took less effort than
"If I may summarize,” the first FSO had jumped back in. What the hell? Were they tag-teaming him? “A gigawatt of focused energy ‘directed’ at the ground. Steerable beams. It could be a weapon."
"And any satellite launch could become a ballistic missile aimed at the ground,” Marcus had snapped in frustration, only to be told he was not being helpful.
To the degree Marcus had ever had control of the session, that was when he lost it. From then until the break, the FSOs had revisited, with painful circumlocution, perhaps every criticism anyone ever made about the U.S., back to those (idiots, in Marcus's opinion) who had objected to American unilateralism in the capture of Phoebe. Diverting a space object, let alone using a nuclear-powered thruster for the dormant comet's final orbital insertion, could be construed as a violation, at least in spirit, of the Outer Space Treaty. (Excuse me: the Treaty on Principles Governing the Activities of States in the Exploration and Use of Outer Space, including the Moon and Other Celestial Bodies.)
In what universe was doing nothing, and maybe having Phoebe hit Earth, the preferred course? The same universe, evidently, where one listened to members of the energy cartels, and the cartels’ most dependent and coercible customers, and Third World ankle biters who did not care how bad things got for them as long as they could get in a dig at the United States, and—
Marcus stopped himself mid-mental rant. Reliving the experience accomplished nothing. Besides, his geopolitical opinions were doubtless as well-founded as the engineering opinions of a roomful of diplomats.
"Hey, Judson."
Marcus turned around. One of the FSOs stood in the break-room entrance. Somebody Ryerson. No, Ryerson Smith. “Yes?"
"We're ready to resume,” Smith said.
Yay! “Okay. I'll be right—"
When Marcus's cell rang, the caller was not in his directory. He did not recognize the number that came up instead of a name. Not even the area code. “I should get this,” he said.
"You know where to find us.” Smith headed down the corridor.
Taking the call, Marcus did not recognize the face projected from the cell display. She wasn't someone he would forget, not with those high cheekbones, chiseled features, hazel eyes, and full lips. Her hair, a rich brown, worn shoulder length, nicely framed her face. Forty-ish: about his age. And she looked mad .
Mad about what? he wondered. He said, cautiously, “Hello."
"Marcus Judson?"
He nodded.
"Valerie Clayburn. I'm calling about the powersat."
While she spoke he had queried her area code. West Virginia? “Did you see me on the 3-V news?” he guessed. Damn town meetings.
"Hardly,” she snipped. A bit of glower added, aren't we full of ourselves . “I Googled ‘powersat NASA program manager’ and got your boss. She gave me this number."
"I'm due back in a meeting, Ms. Clayburn. May I ask what this is about?"
"It's Dr. Clayburn, and I'm calling to schedule a meeting."
Doctor of what? But Ellen had vetted the woman, supposedly, and he had a flexible day coming up. “I have some time open next Monday morning. Will fifteen minutes suffice? Telecon, or will you be coming to my office in Maryland?"
"Fifteen minutes?” She laughed. “Not even close, and anyway, you need to come out here. But Monday works."
"Why there—and where is that, by the way?"
" Here is the Green Bank Observatory. And why here? Trust me, it'll make sense when you see the place."
Could she be any stingier with information? He had neither the time nor the inclination to play twenty questions. “I've got to go,” he told her. “I'll get back to you."
"I'll be here,” she said, and broke the connection.
* * * *
His datasheet folded in quarters because that took less effort than
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