“Remember
to look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Try to make sense of what
you see and wonder about what makes the universe exist. Be curious. And however
difficult life may seem, there is always something you can do and succeed at. It
matters that you don't just give up.” ― Stephen Hawking
The Moon’s top layer alone has enough oxygen to sustain 8 billion people for 100,000 years
John Grant, Lecturer in Soil Science, Southern
Cross University
Disclosure statement
John Grant is affiliated with the human race and as
such he has a vested interest in maintaining their ongoing existence. He,
therefore, tends to advocate for planet earth, the natural home of the human
race. He also has strong feelings for soil which plays a critical role in
earth's ecosystems and which has nurtured the emotional, physical, and
spiritual health of human beings since their first beginnings.
Alongside advances in space exploration, we’ve
recently seen much time and money invested into technologies that could allow
effective space resource utilisation. And at the forefront of these efforts has
been a laser-sharp focus on finding the best way to produce oxygen on the Moon.
In October, the Australian Space Agency and NASA
signed a deal to send an Australian-made rover to the Moon under the Artemis
program, with a goal to collect lunar rocks that could ultimately provide
breathable oxygen on the Moon.
Although the Moon does have an atmosphere, it’s
very thin and composed mostly of hydrogen, neon and argon. It’s not the sort of
gaseous mixture that could sustain oxygen-dependent mammals such as humans.
That said, there is actually plenty of oxygen on
the Moon. It just isn’t in a gaseous form. Instead it’s trapped inside regolith
— the layer of rock and fine dust that covers the Moon’s surface. If we could
extract oxygen from regolith, would it be enough to support human life on the
Moon?
Oxygen can be found in many of the minerals in the
ground around us. And the Moon is mostly made of the same rocks you’ll find on
Earth (although with a slightly greater amount of material that came from
meteors).
Minerals such as silica, aluminium, and iron and
magnesium oxides dominate the Moon’s landscape. All of these minerals contain
oxygen, but not in a form our lungs can access.
On the Moon these minerals exist in a few different
forms including hard rock, dust, gravel and stones covering the surface. This
material has resulted from the impacts of meteorites crashing into the lunar
surface over countless millennia.
Some people call the Moon’s surface layer lunar
“soil”, but as a soil scientist I’m hesitant to use this term. Soil as we know
it is pretty magical stuff that only occurs on Earth. It has been created by a
vast array of organisms working on the soil’s parent material — regolith,
derived from hard rock — over millions of years.
The result is a matrix of minerals which were not
present in the original rocks. Earth’s soil is imbued with remarkable physical,
chemical and biological characteristics. Meanwhile, the materials on the Moon’s
surface is basically regolith in its original, untouched form.
One substance goes in, two come out
The Moon’s regolith is made up of approximately 45%
oxygen. But that oxygen is tightly bound into the minerals mentioned above. In
order to break apart those strong bonds, we need to put in energy.
You might be familiar with this if you know about
electrolysis. On Earth this process is commonly used in manufacturing, such as
to produce aluminium. An electrical current is passed through a liquid form of
aluminium oxide (commonly called alumina) via electrodes, to separate the
aluminium from the oxygen.
In this case, the oxygen is produced as a
byproduct. On the Moon, the oxygen would be the main product and the aluminium
(or other metal) extracted would be a potentially useful byproduct.
It’s a pretty straightforward process, but there is
a catch: it’s very energy hungry. To be sustainable, it would need to be
supported by solar energy or other energy sources available on the Moon.
There are multiple alumina (aluminium oxide)
refineries in Australia, including this one pictured in Gladstone, Queensland.
Aluminium is produced in two stages. Before pure aluminium can be released
using electrolysis (in what is known as the Hall-Heroult process), alumina
refineries must first refine naturally occurring bauxite ore to extract the
alumina (from which pure aluminium is later retrieved). Dave Hunt/AAP
Extracting oxygen from regolith would also require
substantial industrial equipment. We’d need to first convert solid metal oxide
into liquid form, either by applying heat, or heat combined with solvents or
electrolytes. We have the technology to do this on Earth, but moving this apparatus
to the Moon – and generating enough energy to run it – will be a mighty
challenge.
Earlier this year, Belgium-based startup Space
Applications Services announced it was building three experimental reactors to
improve the process of making oxygen via electrolysis. They expect to send the
technology to the Moon by 2025 as part of the European Space Agency’s in-situ
resource utilisation (ISRU) mission.
How much oxygen could the Moon provide?
That said, when we do manage to pull it off, how
much oxygen might the Moon actually deliver? Well, quite a lot as it turns out.
If we ignore oxygen tied up in the Moon’s deeper
hard rock material — and just consider regolith which is easily accessible on the
surface — we can come up with some estimates.
Each cubic metre of lunar regolith contains 1.4
tonnes of minerals on average, including about 630 kilograms of oxygen. NASA
says humans need to breathe about 800 grams of oxygen a day to survive. So
630kg oxygen would keep a person alive for about two years (or just over).
Now let’s assume the average depth of regolith on
the Moon is about ten metres, and that we can extract all of the oxygen from
this. That means the top ten metres of the Moon’s surface would provide enough
oxygen to support all eight billion people on Earth for somewhere around
100,000 years.
This would also depend on how effectively we
managed to extract and use the oxygen. Regardless, this figure is pretty
amazing!
Having said that, we do have it pretty good here on
Earth. And we should do everything we can to protect the blue planet — and its
soil in particular — which continues to support all terrestrial life without us
even trying.
The word steadfast has and Old
English predecessor, stedefæst, combines stede (meaning "place" or
"stead") and fæst (meaning "firmly fixed"). The word was
first used in battle contexts to describe warriors who stood their ground,
which led to its "immovable" sense. That sense gave way to the word's
use as an adjective implying unswerving faith, loyalty, or devotion.
It’s like my Mama, God rest her precious soul, always used to say, she always said “Charlene, the road to Hades is littered with good intentions”
She was right, but Mama was right
about a lot of things.
My name is Charlene
Lynn Harrison. I’m a proud Alabamian. Born and raised, and with the good
Lord willing, they’ll bury me there too. But not for a while. Right now at this
present time, I’m living in Florida, right now.
Anyway, I’m 44 years old. Ten years ago I won ten
million dollars in the lottery from a ticket I got as a tip at the House of Waffles and Grits where I was waitressing. I
was working there first thing out of high school. That was then. Nowadays I’m a card wrapper at
the Grand bay Indian casino in Florida. Not the ones from near China but
regular ones.
I shouldn’t said Indian. The
Indians who own the place don’t like to be called the Indians casino and I can
see that. I mean if it was owned by a bunch of Japanese people you wouldn’t
call it the Jap casino, so I get that.
So that’s what I do, I wrap
cards. A card wrapper is the person who cleans the playing cards, puts them in
order and loads them into the plastic wrapping machine so’s they look brand spank’n
new. Then I pack them on to a cart and they get taken out to the dealers on the
floor.
Well anyway, my story starts when
I was just divorced from my second husband. His name was Birdie. Well, his name
was Orville Hopkins White but somewhere along the line he picked up the name
Birdie and that was that.
So I was waitressing at the House
of Waffles and Gritts back in Alabama, in Forkland, the town where I’m from.
That’s over in Greene County, about 20 miles near Evington, if you know where
that is..
Well I had a regular customer,
Seward Lee. He was at least ….I don’t know….old, real old, like…old old….and
that was back then, some twenty years. I imagine today, he’s even older. Well,
one day, it was a Saturday morning, I’ll never forget that, ole Seward’s paying
up his check from breakfast and he’s paying with a few tattered dollars, coins
and pennies, so I looked away as not to embarrass his kind soul and he say’s
“Charlene, seems I’m a tad shy of enough to leave you a decent tip”
So I says, “Mister Lee, you go
on, I could build me a mansion on the tips you left me over all this time” and
he goes “Nope, child, I won’t have it” and digs into that ragged wallet of his and
takes out a lottery ticket and leaves it on the table and he says “It’s a
chance isn’t it? More than what’s most got”
“And I goes “You don’t have to d0
that, bless your heart”
So that night they draw the
lottery, and I’m watch’n and everything, putting a little tint in my hair. I do
that on Friday nights, and they call my number. I won ten million dollars. The
first thing I thought was “Life is gonna be a breeze from here on”
Lord, lord, lord how wrong was I.
I got a lawyer because everybody
said I should. His name is Jepson Leonard. I went to
him because I was in school with one of his little brothers. Donald Leonard but
every one called him flathead, no, I do not know why. He looked to have normal
head to me.
Jepson Leonard had an office in
shopping plaza in town where the Food Lion is, so it was easy to park there and
all. He told me to take the money out over 30 years instead of just one lump
sum. That would give me an income of almost $400,000 a year and that was just
fine with me.
Well before I could collect a
single red cent of that money, the other girls from the House of Waffles and
Grits who waited tables with me, one day
they took me in back by the dishwasher machine. They said that they deserved an
equal share of the money because we had all agreed that tips would be shared
between us. I said “Well, I dunno” and they all started squack’n and squealin
the way they do cept for Sue Anne Lynne she’s like
the leader of everyone and all, she just looks at the girls and smiles this
like fake smile and walks away and the girls follow her, and they all go back
to work.
Now, I won’t say I ever liked Sue
Anne Lynne. I knew her in high school and all I’ll say is she had a reputation,
and leave it there except to say her whole family is stuck on stupid and she was known back then as a slut, and
leave it there.
So that
night, the shift ends, and its dark and I walk out to my truck, and I look
behind me and there’s Sue Anne Lynne and I smile, and I say “Sue Anne, I’m so
sorry this is happing between us” and that was when she punched me square in
the face. Then she hit me again. And again after that. My nose was bleeding to
beat the bad and I felt dizzy, and I seen the other girls come rushing out of
the kitchen and that’s when I fell down.
I laid there for a while and
opened my eyes and the other girls picked me up and I said “Thank you, oh thank
you” but the only reason they picked me up was to hold my arms so Sue Anne
Lynne could punch me again and down I went again and when I’m down there Sue
Anne Lynne says, “Charlene Lynn right now you stuck up higher than a light pole
but girl, you gonna split that ticket with us fair and square or you gonna
catch this beat’n every day. You hear me straight?”
About that time the busboy
Edwardo and Leroy the cook come running out and pick me and Leroy says, “What
in the Sam hill is go’n on here?” and all the girls didn’t say nothing all at
the same time.
Edwardo and Leroy pulled up from
the gravel and I says “They want me to even split the money from the lottery
with them cause they say we split all the tip money together”
Leroy and Edwardo dropped my
arms, and down I went again, and he turned and faced the girls. Leroy boomed
out “Ya all’s gonna take your cut and leave us out?”
Then he turned to Edwardo and
said, “Son of a bitch” and Edwardo just nodded and all. Then he turned back to
the girls and says “Y’all’s split’n that money with us” and then they all
walked back inside the Waffle and Grits leave’n me on the ground.
I never went back to the
restaurant after that day. I still didn’t have any money from the lottery, that
just don’t arrive over night like you’d thing it would. It’s a slow process to
collect what’s rightfully yours from the government. So I moved in with kin, my
cousin Luyanda and her husband Tall Carl.
After that incident in the
parking lot I said to myself and the Good Lord almighty, right then and there,
that no other human being was ever again going to put a hand on me. My Daddy
beat me for no reason, and my brothers hit me and my ex-husband, Birdie
Johnson, he hit me something awful. Well no more. As Jesus is my Lord and
savior, no more.
That next day I went down to
Lloyds hock shop where they don’t ask a lot of questions and I bought me a .22
caliber pistol with six bullets. Lloyd Driscoll showed me…what do you call
that? Like the on and off switch thingy so it would only shoot when I wanted it
too and I put that in my purse.
Well the girls lawyer sent me a
note that said the girls would allow me to keep $3,000,000 if they could have
the rest. So I went back to see Jepson Leonard the
lawyer and he said the girls from the House of Waffles and Gritts were wrong in
think’n and not to share a plug nickel with them that they were just a bunch of
rats coming out of the woodwork.
“We’ll fight em in court “ he says.
So we fought them in court, and
we lost. The girls and Edwardo and Leroy was there and all smile’n like a bunch
of possum eat’n fire ants.
So Jepson Leonard says “We’ll
appeal it to the Alabama Supreme Court” right after I paid him an arm and a leg.
The Supreme court reversed the
Circuit Court because any agreement with the Waffles House waitresses and me
was unenforceable under Alabama law because it was founded on gambling
considerations which is illegal in Alabama. By that time Jepson Leonard was
almost as rich as I was after what I paid him.
Now the thing is, I still didn’t
have a single penny from that lottery. My lawyer wrote a letter to the lottery commission
asking them to hold off any payment since the entire matter was in court.
Well, the day after I won in
court it was in all the newspapers and the TV news and what not and I’m walk’n
downtown and guess who I come across? Seward Lee, that’s who. Seward Lee, that
kindly old man who left me the winning ticket for a tip.
Well Seward Lee walk’s right up
to me, all smiles and what not and grasps my hand and his face got all twisted
like a rattlesnake ready to strike and he hisses “I’m sue’n you, Charlene Lynn.
Half that money is rightfully mine and you know it”
So back to Jepson Leonard I go,
cept now he’s got a real office in a real office building and he says “We’ll fight’
em in court.”
And we did and after the longest
six months of my life the judge says “Mr. Lee, if you wanted what that ticket
could bring, you shouldn’t have given it away”
So now after legal fees and what
not, I got a lot less money than I started with so they lawyer goes “We’ll set
up a corporation and you can funnel almost all of the income to your relatives
through the corporation”
So we did and life went on until
my ex-boyfriend, Billy Rippon, he’s as worthless as gum on a boot heel, never
worked a day I knew him, fumbled his way back into my life.
That snake in the grass dropped
me and went back to his wife after she won a settlement for getting hit by a
mail truck. Well he sued me because he said that I said that if I ever won the
lottery that I would buy him a new truck.
Well, I went back to see Jepson Leonard,
that lawyer, whose in even a bigger office now, and he says, “We’ll fight him
in court” and we did, and I have to say I was as nervous as a cat in a room full of rockers until the judge
called Billy Rippon and his lawyer up to the bench and whispers loud enough for
all to hear “You two rope dicks ever bring a piece of crap suit like this
before my court again, I’ll have you hog tied and whipped”
I like that judge.
Well, I figured I was all free
and clear, gassed up and ready to go, because just about everyone I knew had
already sued me when I’ll be damned if that low down snake I had divorced,
Birdie Johnson, came crawling around looking for money. To this day, I don’t
know why I didn’t see that coming.
Well, one morning I climbed into
my truck and go on down to the Convenience mart to buy a pack of Marlboro
lights. That’s my brand, Marlboro lights. So I get my smokes when Birdie,
that’s my ex, he jumps in the truck on the passenger’s side and he goes, like,
yell’n at me “Drive down to the boat lift”
So I go, “Birdie, you drink’n
again, ain’t you?”
And he pulls out this gun and he
goes “Does this look like drink’n to you?”
I shook my head “No” and he goes
“Then shut your mouth and drive”
So I goes “What do you want? ”
and he goes “You sign’n that lottery money over to me or you gonna die today.
Now drive”
Well, that just dilled my pickle
Now the boat lift is down highway
90 all the dang way over to Bayou Heron and there isn’t never nobody there.
Never.
So I’m barrel’n ass down to the
launch when my phone rings but Birdie goes “Don’t you answer that” and I go
“I’m answering my own damn phone” and he goes “You do, and it’ll be the biggest
mistake you ever did make”
Now let me tell you something
about Birdie, and don’t take this the wrong way about him, but he is a
psychopath dog-with-fleas-crazy-drunk redneck. I don’t mean anything by that,
I’m just say’n.
Now he can be sweet and kind but
that temper of his, well, you can imagine. When that would go, he would land a
smack on me something awful till I left him. And right at that moment in the
truck he was all but frothing at the mouth and he had more than a little liquor
in him cause I could smell it.
Anyway, I let the phone ring and
we pulled up to the boat ramp and park, and turn the truck off and look at
Birdie, real sweet like, and whisper nice things to him like I used to do. Well
it was working a little but when that idiot phone rang again and ruined the
whole spirit of things and I said “Birdie, if I don’t answer that, they’re
gonna to start looking for me”
So he let me answer it and that
was the biggest danged mistake he ever made because I had that loaded .22 in my
purse. and I knew how to use it and I used it on him. Shot him right square in
the right side of the chest.
He’s rolling around in the seat
going “You shot me, you shot me” and I thought about all those times he belted
me one for no good reason and I closed my fist and I belted him one and said, “Birdie
you ain’t got the sense God gave a goose”
I never hit nobody with a punch before and
when I landed the first and last one of my life on Birdies face I broke my
knuckles. I drove to the hospital and
pulled up outside the emergency room door and I hold my hand up so the nurse
could see it, all swollen and what not, she looks at Birdie in the front seat,
white as a sheet and blood just all over and she goes “What happened?” and I go “I broke my hand”
So the cops come, I go to jail
for the night we all go to court, and I call the lawyer Jepson Leonard……again….and
in court Birdie lies about how the whole thing was a lovers quarrel and the
judge lets me go with a warning.
Just when I figured more shit
could not possibly be added to the crapola storm that was my life, I come home
one day and there’s a United States Federal Marshal with a piece of paper that
says I owe the government $1,000,000 in taxes in something called a gift tax
and a million more for something else.
So take a guess where I went?
Yep, back to Gad-danged Jepson Leonard
the lawyer and we go to court and the judge goes “Yep you owe em the money” and
that wiped me out, so I went to my relatives that we funneled all that money
too, and I asked for some of the money back.
Well, they had gotten used to
live’n high on the hog and told me they did not at that time have a penny to
spare nor did they see have’n a penny to spare in the future. So I went back to
the lawyer and he said “I figured that could happen” and he closed the
corporation that paid them except the tax was different in that case and what I
was left with was $10,000 a year.
So I took the money I got, packed
up and left Alabama for Florida and I work in this Indian casino, wraping
money. That’s what I do, eight hours a day, five days a week. Its fine.
A lady from a magazine come by
one time and says she tracked me all over tarnation and back because she wanted
to write a story about me and about how the money ruined my life.
But the money didn’t ruin my
life. People’s greed is what ruined my life. And I don’t know how much was
ruined neither. I mean all those things that happened to me, well it just took
all the bad and unstable things that crowded my life and put them in
perspective, help me to see them for what they were.
I’m happy now. I work with real,
real nice people. I got a steady fellow,
a good man. A trucker. We’re having a baby girl this June. I got a decent place
to live, nothing fancy, but it suits us just fine. I’m happy now.
By Hank
Searls
Imagination
Stories of Science and Fantasy
December
1955
Some of the anguish and
bitterness and fear left Walter Stanton's heart as he gazed at the vista from
the open landing-lock. It had been almost three months since the core of Space
Station One had nudged itself into its silent orbit, but this, the only
remaining view unhindered by the bulbous fuel storage tanks, still fascinated
him. Now, as the nose of Cargo One crept backward into the blinding sunlight,
he pulled himself further along the catwalk. He waved with his free hand at the
pilot, Major Torrance, although he knew the Major could hardly be watching
during the delicate maneuver. Then, while the massive hatch was still gaping,
he looked earthward.
Twenty-five thousand miles away,
half of the western hemisphere shone through the murky earth-haze, the other
half still in darkness. Through force of habit he oriented himself by looking
at the center of the half-darkened sphere; there lay the Galapagos Islands.
Then he traced the outline of the West Coast to Baja California and thence to
where he knew lay Sandia Base, New Mexico. He glanced at his watch; 7:00 A.M.
Mountain Standard Time; Lynne would be making breakfast for Karen, soon to
leave for school. He felt a stab of loneliness and a tug of envy for the men in
Cargo II. Three skidding entries into the atmosphere; three swinging returns to
space, and they would have decelerated enough to spiral to the incredible
runway at Sandia. In twelve hours they would be home with their wives.
He watched as Torrance, drifting
a hundred yards away, eased the massive nose to a westerly direction and then,
with a tiny burst of power, slowed his relative speed enough to fall rapidly
out of Space One's orbit. He sighed and swung himself around.
Colonel Mel Cramer was hanging on
beside him, grotesquely familiar in the flight gear he used as a Topside Suit.
Walter Stanton's earphones crackled.
"Walt, I'm going to take the
Mistress out for a while and practice some marriages, if it's OK with
you."
Walter Stanton glanced at the
lethal fighter ship nested across the landing-lock and essayed their old joke
again, but his heart wasn't in it. "What would Marge say, Mel?"
Mel Cramer laughed. "She
gave up to Mel's Mistress a year ago. OK to go?"
Walter Stanton thought of the
letter in his pocket. "No, Mel, I think not." Then suddenly: "Is
the Mistress armed ... all ready to go?"
Mel sounded hurt. "Of
course, Walt. She's always ready.... Why?"
Stanton pulled himself to the
hatch in the hub. "Meet me in Control, Mel. I want to talk to you."
Walter Stanton belted himself to
his desk chair and pulled out the letter from De La Rue, reading it again. He
felt a surge of nostalgia at the Old Man's quaint English; the
Secretary-General's white-hot internationalism had never impelled him to
improve his languages. But there was nothing quaint about the content of the
letter....
Mel Cramer shuffled in with the
strange gait that they had all developed within days of arriving in space.
Automatically he snapped his safety belt to a grommet on Mel's desk, then sat
on the top.
"What's on your mind,
Walt?"
"This...." Walter
Stanton handed him the letter. "Torrance brought it. I guess De La Rue
didn't have enough to go on to send a dispatch, so he wrote the letter."
Mel Cramer read the letter
swiftly, smiling first at the whimsical phraseology and then suddenly frowning.
He whistled.
"Sounds bad, Walter, sounds
bad...."
"Torrance said Sandia Base
is on a 24 hour alert."
"God," Mel said
desperately. "I wish Marge would leave that place. Why can't she move to
the country somewhere?"
"She feels like Lynne, probably....
That if we're here, the least she can do is stay as close as possible...."
"As close as possible,"
Mel said bitterly. He lit a cigarette. "Walt, have you heard anything
about my relief?"
Walter Stanton felt a stab of
anger at his friend. Professionally ambitious, Mel had fought for his job as
Platform Fighter Pilot; now, with the decline of Space One in the eyes of the
military, he probably had his eyes on other fields. Carefully controlling his
voice, he said: "No, Mel. Nothing's come in. Why?"
Mel Cramer shrugged. "I
don't know.... They said three months, that's all. And it's been nearly
fourteen weeks...." He laughed. "Kind of feel like the world's
passing me by. Joke, Walter."
Walter Stanton took back the
letter and folded it carefully. Then, on second thought, he lit a match and
burned it.
"I asked you in for advice,
Mel," he said carefully, watching the flickering flame.
"You bet. Shoot."
"If it starts, what are the
wheels going to do?"
"The brass?" Mel
laughed. "You asking me? I'm just a light colonel."
"You're the senior military
man aboard. All I want is your opinion."
Mel's brow furrowed. For a long
moment he was silent, and Walter Stanton heard the ceaseless whine of the
ventilators. Space Two, when and if it's built, he thought irrationally, had
better have ventilators that don't cry like a cat in heat.
"Well, Mel?"
"I think," Mel Cramer
said thoughtfully, "they'll suggest that we evacuate."
Walter Stanton slapped his hand
on the desk and swung in his chair. "I knew it! Can't they see? Can't they
see at all?"
"Walter," Mel said
quietly. "Let's face it. From a military standpoint, Space One is a
failure."
"The Russians don't seem to
think so. Even with the agreement in their pocket, they're still
screaming."
Mel shook his head doggedly.
"Militarily, it's a failure."
"It's not a failure,"
Mel barked. He unsnapped his belt, shuffled to the center of the compartment,
and kicked open the cover of a port in the rim-deck. "Look at that! Look
at those stars, Mel. No one's ever had a crack at them like this. The
astronomers, and astro-physicists, have learned more from Mike and Andre in the
last three months than they have in the last three centuries." As the rim
rotated, the earth came majestically into view. "Look at that,"
Stanton said. "See that cold front over the Sierras? Petrovski's data has
given them forecasts down there that they've never conceived of." He waved
his hand expansively. "Vacuum! Billions and billions of cubic miles of
hard, hard vacuum. Trippler goes nuts at the thought of it. Any physicist, any
electronic engineer, would. Temperature? Absolute zero. Absolute zero, Mel.
Where else can you get absolute zero? Can't they see what it means?"
Mel Cramer ground out his
cigarette.
"What does absolute zero
mean, Walt? To a general?"
Walter kicked shut the hatch.
"I don't know. I just don't know...."
"Walt, this deal was
oversold to the military. You know it, and I know it. Frankly, you helped
oversell it."
Walter Stanton swung around
angrily. "You're right, Mel. But the end justified the means. We needed
the funds; only the military could provide them. And it is useful to them; it
will be, when it's finished. It would be now, if—"
"If we could break the
agreement and leave the Galapagos Islands for a spin around the world."
"No!" Walter Stanton
held his friend's eyes. "That isn't what I meant. This platform wasn't
meant for spying; the millions of man-hours weren't spent for that. It's a UN
deal, Mel, and we needed the agreement; we had to see that the Russians kept
hands-off. If the price is an orbit that keeps us at earth-surface speed; if we
have to stay on our side of the iron curtain, OK. We agreed to it, and by God
if we grow roots down to Galapagos we're staying here."
Mel shrugged. "That isn't
the point. The wheels know that in case of war you'd change orbits. If they
thought it was worth while, they'd order you to. The UN could order you to.
What they doubt is that if you moved your orbit in behind the Curtain you'd see
enough to do any good."
"I don't care to argue that
point. Right now, probably not. When the scope's completed and installed, we'll
undoubtedly be able to spot concentrations and new industries. The main thing
would be to stay with the station. But it's an academic question—"
"Is it an academic question
whether they can blow us out of the sky?"
Walter Stanton shot him a glance.
"That's your department. Can they?"
"Let's not kid ourselves. If
they have a missile they can get up here, it'll track you. Manned or unmanned,
regardless of what your orbit is or where you are."
"The theory is, Mel, that
Ground Control Center will intercept."
"Walter!" Cramer's lip
twisted sardonically. "I'm surprised! You didn't fall for that mullarkey,
did you? How are they going to intercept anything with a head start?"
"Another part of the theory,
Mel, is that you'll intercept if they don't. Intercept it and destroy
it...."
"Destroy it...." For a
sickening moment Walter Stanton thought he read fear in his friend's eye. Mel
said quietly: "Destroy it and try to get to Sandia...." He stood up.
"And suppose they have another missile? Who destroys that?"
"Even a guided missile would
cost almost as much as our original core. Do you think they've built one, let
alone two?"
"We'd sure find out in a
hurry. We'd be their first target."
"And their second would
probably be Sandia," Walt said thoughtfully.
"Don't say that!" Mel
shouted. Walter looked at him in surprise. "Don't. Don't say that,"
Mel said again, more softly. There was a long silence. The ventilators whined.
Mel passed his hand over his face. "Those damned ventilators.... How about
my taking Mel's Mistress out now? Just for a while?"
Walter Stanton glanced
sympathetically at his friend. He wants to get away from the platform, even a
few thousand yards. And I can't blame him!
"Sure, Mel. You've read the
letter now, and you know how much fuel you have, so it's up to you."
Mel Cramer grimaced. "Yeah,
fuel. Well, I guess I'll skip it. I'm going to hit the sack."
Walter Stanton stared after him
thoughtfully....
At dinner the talk was all of
war; Peters, the Australian fuelman and part time cook, flicked a switch in the
galley and flooded the Platform's PA system with the 10:00 P.M. news from
Dallas. Petrovski, the Russians' originally unwelcome contribution to the
project, but undeniably one of the world's top meteorologists, was embarrassed,
and the rest of the Team tried to keep the talk on an objective, international
plane. But Walter Stanton felt the strain and as Project Head tried to change
the subject.
"Why we had to draft an
Australian cook, with two Frenchmen on the team," he said, toying with his
custard. "I'll never know."
Peters' voice from the galley
said: "It's because one of the bloody Frenchmen think a cheese souffle is
a new galaxy and the other thinks it's English for a cosmic particle. Besides,
I don't see anybody losing weight."
"That's because—" began
Walter Stanton, and then felt a tug at his sleeve. It was Lang, the young radar
plotter and radio operator.
"Lieutenant Goldstein just
broke this, sir," he said, handing him a dispatch. Something in his eyes
chilled Walter Stanton. He read the message and cold fear squeezed him. He
looked up.
"Gentlemen," he said,
raising his hand. "Can I have your attention?"
The talk died. Petrovski,
apparently guessing the contents of the dispatch, looked sick. Mel Cramer was
staring at his glass.
"Gentlemen," Walter Stanton
said quietly, "this is it. Mel, we were wrong. We weren't the first
target. Neither was Sandia. They just bombed New York."
There was deathly silence for a
long moment, while each man riffled through his thoughts. "Christ!"
somebody swore.
"I've been advised by Ground
Control to stand by to evacuate. Cargo One is refueling to take us off."
An angry babble broke out around
the table. Velez, the tiny Brazilian astronomer, jumped up angrily.
"Evacuate? But the Platform! What happens to it?"
Stanton shrugged.
"Uncorrected perturbations build up, and eventually it either skids off
into space or falls into the atmosphere and burns. Or maybe," he said
bitterly, "we're supposed to jettison it ourselves. Sink it in space
before we leave, like a crew abandoning a submarine."
Velez went white. "But the
effort in building this; the time of the thousands of scientists and billions
of dollars; what becomes of them?"
"They apparently consider
the Platform a sitting duck, and are kind enough to take a chance on evacuating
us."
Howard, a grey, unemotional power
plant expert, a grim man whom Walter Stanton barely liked, sat back and folded
his hands. He spoke with dogged emphasis.
"This project has taken the
best of science for the last four years. It has held up research in other
fields, and justifiably so. I do not propose to let four years of mankind's
progress go spinning off into space alone, war or no war, Russians or no
Russians. I shall not leave it. I'm a civilian, and I refuse to go. Is that clear?"
Walter Stanton stifled a wild
impulse to laugh at the thought of Howard spinning alone and infinitely through
space. Suddenly he liked the man.
"Any other comments?"
Velez bristled like a bantam
rooster. "I shall stay with Senor Howard."
Walter Stanton set his jaw.
"If I give the word, we'll evacuate, all of us. If I give the word."
He glanced down the row of faces. "I'm toying with the idea of allowing
volunteers to stay."
There was a chorus of assent.
With a chill, Walter Stanton remembered Petrovski. He glanced at him and the
big Russian, blond and bespectacled, arose ponderously and leaned on the table.
"Gentlemen.... Could I
speak?"
"Go ahead, Ski,"
somebody said.
"I ... I do not know whether
those people who rule my country are capable of destroying this ... this
marvelous thing. I do not know whether they would want to destroy it...."
He took off his glasses and polished them fiercely. "But if you would
allow me.... If it could be arranged ... I should like to stay...."
Walter Stanton, touched, cleared
his throat. He spoke quietly.
"And if it were turned into
a weapon against your country?"
Petrovski looked as if he were
about to cry. "If my country tries to destroy this wonderful thing of
science.... Then it is no more my country.... And I would still like to
stay...."
"Yes," said Stanton, a
little embarrassed. "Well, we'll see...."
Mel Cramer leaned back suddenly
in his seat. "Could a beat-up old light colonel have a few words, seeing
as how this project is slipping rapidly from your league into mine?"
Walter Stanton gazed at him
quizzically. "Of course, Mel. Go ahead."
"You guys are all full of
bull." Cramer leaned forward, counting on his fingers. "In the first
place, you wouldn't have a chance if they've got a missile that can get here.
In the second place, you wouldn't do any good if you did stay. In the third
place, if they tell you to get out, you'll get out. Period. Is that
clear?"
Walter Stanton felt his blood
rise. "Just a second. The Air Force advises us; the UN tells us. Let's
keep that straight."
"Buddy," said Mel,
"if I know War, it isn't going to be that way very long...."
The intercom system burst into
life. The flat, nasal voice of Lieutenant Goldstein, the sharp young Air Force
radar officer, crackled through the room.
"Colonel Cramer, Mr.
Stanton. Would you come to Control? I've picked up a missile. I think it's
headed for us...."
With the dim orange light of the
PPI radar scope gleaming on his sharp features, Goldstein looked like some
interested youngster staring into a campfire.
"It's on a tangential orbit
now, just breaking into the exosphere—I'll be able to give you its free flight
velocity in a minute."
"Was it three stage or
two?" Cramer asked.
"Two, sir, apparently."
"So far," Mel Cramer
said. "If it accelerates again, we'll know for sure."
From the huge transparent board
behind them the plotter, Airman Lang, spoke. "I make it 700 knots relative
to Platform speed, sir."
"Give or take a few
hundred," murmured Goldstein.... "Oops ... I think she's started
another burn-out period...."
"She's accelerating,
sir," said Lang. "But fast...."
They watched the tiny pip while
Goldstein worked with his cranks and dials. "Spatial velocity will be
about 1300 knots relative, sir."
"Well," said Cramer.
"At least I could catch it on a second pass ... if I missed." He
coughed nervously. "How much time have we got?"
The circuit to Ground Control
burst into life. "Space One, Space One, this is Ground Control. We have a
missile on our scope from relay Four. Altitude four hundred miles, relative
velocity 1370, Latitude—"
Mel Cramer picked up the mike.
"OK, OK, ground control. We have it." He smiled bitterly and added:
"I assume you're intercepting with a missile."
There was a long silence, then:
"Mel, this is General Staves. You know damn well we can't intercept. We
just picked it up, and we're too late."
Mel sounded cheerful enough, but
Walter Stanton blanched as he saw the hand shaking on the mike.
"OK, General. We'll see what
we can do. What's the status of Cargo One?"
"She's still taking fuel. We
may be able to evacuate you if you can get this first one."
Walter Stanton took the mike.
"General, this is Stanton. If he gets this one, we don't intend to
evacuate."
There was a shocked silence, and
then the general's dry voice.
"You'll evacuate, all right.
And I suggest you take evasive action, in spite of your agreement."
"We are, General, I'm
shortening our orbit now."
"If you see anything good
over Russia," the General said, "let us know. New York you won't
see."
"Always joking," said
Airman Lang bitterly. "That's the General."
Walter Stanton faced Mel Cramer
in the darkness. "Well, Mel...."
Mel tried to laugh, but his voice
sounded tight. "Well, Walter...."
"It's up to you, Mel. The
whole shebang."
Mel's mouth worked dryly and he
nodded. "Yep. Guess.... Guess I better suit up...."
Walter Stanton waited inside the
hub, gazing through the port at the tiny fighter across the landing-lock. I
wish ... I wish it were me who could fly it, he thought desperately. He ran his
hand along the support rail, as if caressing the metal and plastic of the
Platform. He remembered the dreams, the toil, the heartbreak, far back to when
men laughed at the concept of a platform in space. He thought of the pioneers
of rocket work, some of them dead; the men at Peenemunde using their brains for
war but even so adding painstakingly to the fund of knowledge. He thought of
the moment of blinding elation three months before, when the last reactor had
been cut off and the core of Space One swung easily into her orbit. If only Mel
could understand.... Better yet, if I could fly.... He knew certainly that he
himself would give his life to save the Platform; knew surely that Lynne would
understand. But would Mel Cramer give his life? For his country, probably; for
his home and family, surely; but for what he seemed to consider a useless
scientific gadget?
He heard a movement and turned.
Mel Cramer, massive in his flight gear, but with his helmet off, was standing
behind him. His face was drawn.
"Well, Walter, wish me
luck."
"Mel.... Do you know what
this means? Really?"
"My indoctrination is
complete, if that's what you mean. I can't agree with you that the world will
fall apart if Space One isn't a success, but the world's falling apart anyway,
so it really doesn't matter. I'll make my passes as close as possible."
And if you miss? thought Walter
Stanton. What will you do? Will you make another pass, a sacrificial pass? He
wished for a moment that their culture embodied the Oriental concept of
patriotism; the disregard for human life, the fatalistic belief in some
paradise for battle-dead.
"Mel," he said
suddenly, forcing the words. "What happens if you miss?"
Mel Cramer's jaw tightened,
"just a minute, Walt," he said slowly. "I don't quite know what
you're getting at, but I have an idea. Are you suggesting that I fly into that
thing?"
There was a long silence, and the
ventilators whined.
Walter nodded his head slowly.
"Yes, Mel. If necessary."
Mel Cramer stared at him.
"This isn't a Japanese kamikaze pilot you're talking to! This is Mel
Cramer. I was an ace as a kid in Korea, and nobody ever accused me of being
yellow, but I didn't sign up for this job to commit suicide. That isn't the way
we do it. That's why I'm carrying rockets instead of a warhead full of tetryl.
And it's why we win wars; we don't sacrifice the men we've got; we give 'em
every chance."
Walter Stanton said: "It's
not my prerogative to ask you to sacrifice yourself. It's just that.... This
project...."
"Everybody on this project
is a volunteer."
"It isn't us; it's the
Platform."
"Everybody on the Platform
is a volunteer," Mel Cramer repeated doggedly. "Everyone knew the
chances he was taking. And there isn't a one of them who loves his wife and kid
anymore than I do."
Through the sickness of his
disappointment, Walter Stanton forced a grin. "OK, Mel. My love to Marge
when you get to Sandia; and tell Lynne ... tell her...."
"I'll tell her you'll be
back on Cargo One by tomorrow," Mel Cramer said. "If," he added
softly, "I make it to Sandia Base, and if Sandia Base is still
there...."
Cramer glanced through the port
at the mechanic waiting to help him into the tiny fighter, shivered a little,
snapped on his helmet and stepped out to the catwalk. Walter Stanton watched
through the port as the huge air-lock opened and Mel Cramer eased the Mistress
out. She nestled next to the Platform like a small, angry wasp near a hive,
power off, waiting for intercept data from Goldstein in Control. Walter Stanton
felt a chill race up his back. He started up the ladder.
Goldstein had flicked on the
remote telescreen and was watching it, with one eye on the PPI scope. The
screen came to life, and Walter Stanton saw a clear picture of Space One as Mel
Cramer pointed the Mistress at the platform to aid in focussing.
"OK, Colonel,"
Goldstein said. "Screen controls locked."
"Screen controls
locked," Mel Cramer's voice repeated. The image of Space One disappeared
from the screen as the Mistress swung to the East, paralleling the motion of
the platform in space, ready to add its speed to that of the artificial
satellite. "Heading zero-nine-zero," said Cramer. "Ready to
launch."
"Blast for ten
seconds," said Goldstein, "and stand by for intercept
information."
"Blasting." Cramer's
voice seemed strained. Then: "Power off! Swinging!"
Walter Stanton stared at the
telescreen, a duplicate of Mel's screen, and the very eyes of the Mistress,
since her windshield would be covered against the sandblasting meteoric dust until
the last seconds of the firing run. The time seemed to press on the back of his
neck, and he felt his head ache with the strain. The ventilators moaned.
Goldstein spoke suddenly.
"Missile eight hundred miles
earthward, rate of closure 480 knots, twelve o'clock from you." His voice
rose slightly. "Have you got it, Colonel? Is it on your screen?"
There was an aching void of
silence, then "Affirm! I have it. Commencing first pass!"
Walter Stanton became suddenly
aware that Radar Control was crowded. He heard Peters' voice: "How many
runs can he make?"
"Two runs; he'll fire two
proximity rockets per pass. They ought to track the missile."
"Yeah," said Lang
dryly. "It's all doped out. This science is wonderful...."
Walter Stanton jumped as an image
of the missile appeared on the telescreen. From a tiny flash it grew quickly
more bright until it was a circle on the screen. "Locked!" grated
Cramer's voice. "Firing!"
Two streaks appeared at the
bottom of the screen and darted for the circle. Walter Stanton heard a gasp of
relief in the compartment as they sped true, straight for the center. Then,
amazingly, the streaks wobbled erratically and streaked away. The circle of
light moved slowly downward off the screen as Mel Cramer pulled up.
"Missed," breathed
Goldstein. "Brother...."
Mel Cramer's voice cut into the
silence. It was strained and uncertain. "I think it's jamming my control
heads.... Putting out strips, maybe. I'm making another pass."
"Thanks, Colonel,"
whispered Lang from the plotting board. "This is what Uncle pays you
for.... Let's earn it...."
For an eternity they waited, and
again the circles appeared in the center of the screen. "Locked," Mel
Cramer said. Closer and closer moved the light, and for a moment Walter Stanton
had a wild burst of hope. The target seemed too close to miss; the two rockets
streaked for it, reaching hungrily. Then they wobbled again and disappeared
from the screen as Mel Cramer pulled up. There was a chilling silence in the
room.
"Well," said Goldstein,
"that does it. We've got ... let's see ... 176 seconds, if anyone cares to
know."
Mel Cramer's voice came into the
room as if from the grave. "It.... It was jamming ... I was right
on!"
"Excuses, Colonel,"
muttered Lang. "Always excuses...."
Goldstein talked into the mike.
"Colonel, I suggest you commence your braking ellipse immediately. I don't
know what effect the explosion will have in this orbit, but I think you'd
better leave it."
Walter Stanton turned desperately
to Goldstein. "Goldie, is it certain? We've got to save the platform!
Suppose I use full reactors, shorten our orbit even faster?"
"It won't matter, sir."
He jammed his thumb at the PPI scope. "That thing's tailing us like a
flying cadet after a WAF. It'd follow us all the way back to Sandia if we could
get there."
Walter Stanton felt the Platform,
his dream, pulsing around him. For a moment he felt an affection even for the
maddening wail of the ventilators. Behind him, he knew, were some of the best
brains in science; men whose concepts cut across the lines of nationalism; who
by their presence on the Platform showed that they disregarded the very
instinct of self-preservation in the search for Truth. And he felt the presence
too of the thousands below who had helped make the Platform a reality. He took
a deep breath. Then he picked up the microphone and spoke to his friend.
"Mel, this is Walt. I've
just received a dispatch. Do not—repeat—do not land at Sandia. Suggest you try
to use White Sands."
Mel's startled voice came back.
"Why?"
Walter Stanton felt his hands
grow clammy.
"They just destroyed Sandia
Base."
Goldstein gaped at him.
"What.... What are you telling him?" He moved for the mike, but
Walter Stanton shook his head.
The speaker crackled.
"Destroyed? Sandia destroyed?"
"Entirely."
"The—The dependents'
quarters too?"
Walter Stanton forced out the
words. "Everything, Mel."
There was a long silence, and
then Mel Cramer spoke, and his voice was tired. "Vector me, Goldie."
Goldstein said: "To White
Sands, Colonel?"
Behind the tiredness and the
sadness Walter Stanton caught a hint of strength in the voice that came back.
"To the missile...."
Goldstein hesitated, looked at
Walter Stanton.
"Do it, son," said
Stanton....
He could never afterwards
remember how long he had been sitting at his desk when Goldstein tapped on the
hatch and entered, carrying a message. The lean youth looked down at him.
"First, sir, I want to say
that I understand...."
Walter Stanton looked at him
gratefully. "You know it wasn't to save us.... Just the Platform...."
"I know it, and it took more
guts than I've ever seen. But you'll need guts for this too, sir...."
He handed Stanton the message.
FROM: EARTH CONTROL CENTER
TO: SPACE ONE
SANDIA BASE DESTROYED ENEMY
BOMBING ATTACK STAVES
The dull throbbing ache started
in his chest, and he knew that it might live with him for the rest of his life.
He let the message fall.
"If you get a list of
dependent casualties, call a conference immediately."
"Yes sir. Anything else,
sir?"
He forced himself to forget Lynne
and Karen and concentrate on the new problems. He moved to the deck-port and
kicked open the cover. On their shortened orbit they were moving in relation to
the earth's surface now; the west coast of Africa lay below.
"Did Cargo One get
launched?"
"No, sir. Destroyed while
fueling."
One of the problems, then, would
be starvation; Cargo Two was months from completion. But at least, if they
could survive, they'd have a chance to prove themselves; to prove the value of
the Platform in war as well as peace; to save the tiny satellite for its
intended use. He turned to Goldstein.
"Pass the word for that
conference now. We've got some high-powered IQ's up here and there's a war
going on. Maybe we can make it the last one...."
