California with me. I'd much rather somebody have it, than nobody. Especially if that somebody can appreciate it."
"Thank you," he said. "Now, it's almost nine. Can we get started?"
"Sure," Debra said.
She went to her computer and picked up the clicker. Groomer sat down in his seat, where one of his associates had already laid out a small array of items from the breakfast cart. He sipped at his coffee, then began preparing a bagel. Debra cleared her throat, and recited her spiel.
Groomer and his two associates had been silent through Debra's entire fifteen minute routine. Now that she was near the end, Groomer raised a hand to halt her.
"I've only got one real question," he said. "If everything can work like you say it can, why not just go to Mars?"
"Well, Mr. Groomer, to be blunt, spending money to go to Mars--just because it's closer--is a lot like spending money to drive from New York City to Burbank, when you could fly to New Zealand for not much more."
His eyebrows went up, and he nodded.
Encouraged, Debra pressed on.
"As you can see here," she said, using the clicker to freeze the animation of the spacecraft at a particularly salient data point, "once the equipment and people are out of Earth's orbit, all else becomes a waiting game. And while Mars takes less time to reach, Jupiter has an abundance of the one resource we'd need--more than any other--to make our presence permanent."
"You mean, water," said one of Groomer's two sidekicks, who had been identified by the name of Broadwell.
"Exactly," Debra said. "Three of the four big moons of Jupiter have an enormous amount of accessible water. Much more than Mars, or Earth's own moon for that matter. Water for living, experimentation, and fuel. And with my advanced fusion thruster design--the details of which are in the folders in front of you--the total trip time to Jupiter really doesn't pose a problem. Even for vehicles with limited available crew accommodations. So, we're looking at months, instead of years. Any astronaut who has done time on either of the International Space Stations wouldn't blink at that duration."
"All well and good," Broadwell said, gnawing at the end of a silver ball point pen, "but this assumes your thruster will work as advertised. So far, all you've shown us are projections based on your own doctoral thesis paper. You've never built a working prototype."
"True," Debra said, "but if I had my own money for a prototype, I wouldn't be coming to companies with my hand out, right?"
"Then why not just ask a manufacturer for a research grant?" said Broadwell's counterpart, an iron-haired woman with the last name Chaffetz.
"A grant?" Debra said, blinking.
"That's a slam dunk, Doctor," Chaffetz continued. "They give out millions in such grants, all to people like you. If your thruster design pans out, you share the patent with them, and everybody makes money. Why peddle this grand scheme for sending people to Jupiter? That's a job for government, not private enterprise."
Debra let her chin sink to her chest for a short moment. This was the part of the presentation she hated the most. Because the whole thing really did come down to that single, damnable question:
How is anyone going to make any money?
Debra swallowed once, screwed her courage to the proverbial sticking place, and looked directly into the skeptical face of her questioner.
"Ma'am, I'm of the firm belief that commerce--in the service of discovery--has been one of the great forces of history. How long since Neil Armstrong first set foot on the moon? Eight decades? And all for the sake of beating the Soviet Union to the punch? Obviously, beating the Soviets wasn't sufficient to keep America, or the world, interested in going to the moon. There has to be more
there
there."
"A good point," said Broadwell. "But again, why shouldn't this be a job for governments? After all, Columbus went to Queen Isabella for ships and funding, not a mercantile conglomerate."
"Sooner or
"Thank you," he said. "Now, it's almost nine. Can we get started?"
"Sure," Debra said.
She went to her computer and picked up the clicker. Groomer sat down in his seat, where one of his associates had already laid out a small array of items from the breakfast cart. He sipped at his coffee, then began preparing a bagel. Debra cleared her throat, and recited her spiel.
Groomer and his two associates had been silent through Debra's entire fifteen minute routine. Now that she was near the end, Groomer raised a hand to halt her.
"I've only got one real question," he said. "If everything can work like you say it can, why not just go to Mars?"
"Well, Mr. Groomer, to be blunt, spending money to go to Mars--just because it's closer--is a lot like spending money to drive from New York City to Burbank, when you could fly to New Zealand for not much more."
His eyebrows went up, and he nodded.
Encouraged, Debra pressed on.
"As you can see here," she said, using the clicker to freeze the animation of the spacecraft at a particularly salient data point, "once the equipment and people are out of Earth's orbit, all else becomes a waiting game. And while Mars takes less time to reach, Jupiter has an abundance of the one resource we'd need--more than any other--to make our presence permanent."
"You mean, water," said one of Groomer's two sidekicks, who had been identified by the name of Broadwell.
"Exactly," Debra said. "Three of the four big moons of Jupiter have an enormous amount of accessible water. Much more than Mars, or Earth's own moon for that matter. Water for living, experimentation, and fuel. And with my advanced fusion thruster design--the details of which are in the folders in front of you--the total trip time to Jupiter really doesn't pose a problem. Even for vehicles with limited available crew accommodations. So, we're looking at months, instead of years. Any astronaut who has done time on either of the International Space Stations wouldn't blink at that duration."
"All well and good," Broadwell said, gnawing at the end of a silver ball point pen, "but this assumes your thruster will work as advertised. So far, all you've shown us are projections based on your own doctoral thesis paper. You've never built a working prototype."
"True," Debra said, "but if I had my own money for a prototype, I wouldn't be coming to companies with my hand out, right?"
"Then why not just ask a manufacturer for a research grant?" said Broadwell's counterpart, an iron-haired woman with the last name Chaffetz.
"A grant?" Debra said, blinking.
"That's a slam dunk, Doctor," Chaffetz continued. "They give out millions in such grants, all to people like you. If your thruster design pans out, you share the patent with them, and everybody makes money. Why peddle this grand scheme for sending people to Jupiter? That's a job for government, not private enterprise."
Debra let her chin sink to her chest for a short moment. This was the part of the presentation she hated the most. Because the whole thing really did come down to that single, damnable question:
How is anyone going to make any money?
Debra swallowed once, screwed her courage to the proverbial sticking place, and looked directly into the skeptical face of her questioner.
"Ma'am, I'm of the firm belief that commerce--in the service of discovery--has been one of the great forces of history. How long since Neil Armstrong first set foot on the moon? Eight decades? And all for the sake of beating the Soviet Union to the punch? Obviously, beating the Soviets wasn't sufficient to keep America, or the world, interested in going to the moon. There has to be more
there
there."
"A good point," said Broadwell. "But again, why shouldn't this be a job for governments? After all, Columbus went to Queen Isabella for ships and funding, not a mercantile conglomerate."
"Sooner or
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