Chris Randolph - Stars Rain Down

That didn’t stop him groaning on his way in.

The interior was as unfriendly as the exterior, and largely empty as a final proof that its construction was all pretense without purpose. Marcus thought symbolic of the culture of waste that had crippled the Foundation for decades, and he ground his teeth while calculating how many exploratory missions could have been funded on the cathedral’s budget. If he had his way, the Foundation’s bureaucracy would be pared down to two dozen full time accountants who would meet once a week at an all-night diner, but he thought that dream a little far fetched, even for him.

The half-kilometer journey to the Goddard Meeting Hall was swift thanks to the network of moving pavement, or what he called the Great Conveyor Belts of Doom—he’d always had a flare for the dramatic—and he arrived early for a meeting for the first time in his life. The feeling was strange, maybe even a little refreshing, but nothing he intended to grow accustomed to.

He took a seat and somehow survived the next three hours, which were slow, tedious and boring in the extreme. One rotund bureaucrat after another stood at the head of the long table, pointed sweatily at ill conceived charts and graphs, and failed to describe in words what his diagrams failed to describe in pictures. The inability to come to a point must have figured highly on their resumés, and Marcus stifled laughter when the thought occurred to him.

Once the last presentation was blessedly over—something about cost cutting measures in the office supply division—Marcus was up. It was show time.

He limped uneasily to the head of the table and tried to find some comfortable way to lean on his cane, and failing that, settled on leaning uncomfortably instead. His pose was not the absolute picture of masculinity, but it would have to do.

He reached into his pocket and removed a wireless drive that doubled as a remote control. With the click of a button, it interfaced with the rooms projectors, uploaded his presentation, and then sat in waiting for his next command.

“Gentlemen,” Marcus said and cleared his throat. “We’ve heard a lot today about cost-cutting measures: department re-organization, energy conservation, toilet paper recycling and what-have-you.” He paused to let the barb sting. “What none of these men told you is that they’re only offering band-aids that will, in all frankness, do nothing to stanch the Foundation’s financial bleeding. No amount of schedule shuffling can fix our problems.”

He took a look around at the blank faces surrounding him and then went on. “Those of you familiar with my work know that I operate a little differently. I’m not here to give you a lick and a promise. I care about results, and I know you do as well.”

The old codgers were awake, and Marcus had their attention. Technically, the difficult part of the job was already done.

He pressed a button on his remote; the room’s lights dimmed and the large screen behind him displayed an image of a bright, eye-shaped burst against a backdrop of stars.

“Twenty-five years ago, Sirius B went supernova and filled the night sky with a light that re-ignited mankind’s imagination. Interest in space exploration rocketed to levels not seen since the Cold War, as people all across the globe once again looked toward the heavens and wondered what secrets the universe might hold.”

He tapped the control and the screen now showed the Earth, its moon, and Mars.

“The Foundation was established and we quickly constructed more than two dozen permanent orbital facilities. Telescopes, the Midway Refueling station at Lagrange-Five, and the two greatest achievements of our time, the Helios and Hyperion Solar Energy Arrays which made low-cost power a reality. We then went on to establish Tranquility Research Station on the moon, and Ares, the first permanent colony on Mars, which today supports more than seven thousand colonists.

“That list is just mind-boggling, isn’t it? That’s a hell of a lot to be proud of… But that’s all in the past. What about today? Well, as you all know, I’ve just returned from Copernicus Observatory, the only new off-world facility built in more than ten years. Think about that for a moment.

“Twenty years ago, the Global Aerospace Foundation was a media darling. We were the future, possessed of our own epic drive and determination, and working without rest toward a single goal: to press forth into the darkness and spread humanity to the far corners of the cosmos. My question is… what the hell happened?”

He clicked the remote again, and the planets were replaced by an artist’s rendering of the space elevator climbing up its tether into the void. That particular image was exceptionally famous, and had become a punch-line in the Foundation offices. In response, a rather predictable groan filled the air. “This is what happened, gentlemen. May I politely direct your attention to the elephant in the room.”

“The space elevator is our most ambitious project. It holds the promise of virtually eliminating the cost of orbiting payloads, and it could finally realize interplanetary travel on a massive scale. If we stop to consider the elevator’s potential, it’s a wonder we’ve accomplished so much without it.”

Another click of the remote, and the inspirational rendering was replaced with a photograph of a metal frame work, a skeleton of steel girders floating high above the Earth. A small maintenance crew was visible working at one end. “And here’s where the project stands today, more than six years past the planned completion date. The elevator has proven to be a logistical nightmare, and its failure has destroyed our momentum. Those bare girders… that’s where we throw all our money away.”

Marcus clicked again, and the display switched to a very simple diagram, one he hoped even bureaucrats could grasp. It was a green circle on a white background. He pointed to the image as he spoke. “This delicious apple pie represents all GAF expenditures since the project began.” Nine tenths of the circle turned red. “The cherry portion is all of the funding that’s been diverted to the elevator.” A fifth of that area then turned blue. ”…and the tiny little blueberry slice here was the original cost estimate.”

“What, then?” Chief Administrator Chandra asked without a hint of amusement. “You’re not seriously suggesting we cancel the space elevator?”

“Not at all, sir. I have a much more revolutionary idea: We finish it.”

Marcus advanced to the next image. This one was an aerial photograph taken over Cape Canaveral launch center, where a monstrous rocket sat on the pad. “The single biggest obstacle is precisely what the elevator is designed to fix. Our inability to put its largest components into orbit has become a fiscal sink-hole. Even our largest multi-stage lifters aren’t up to the task, and the components are too complex to be assembled in space. Essentially, we need the space elevator to finish the space elevator.”

“We’re chasing our own tail then,” a droll voice at the far end of the table said.

“No, no… we’re just attacking the problem from the wrong angle. Nobody wants to admit it, but we’ve run face first into a brick wall. We need more thrust and that requires more fuel, which in turn means larger, heavier and more sophisticated craft. Our answer has been to slap secondary rockets onto a lifter, and when those don’t do the trick, we add support rockets to the secondaries. More components means more potential points of failure, and I don’t need to remind anyone here the human price we’ve already paid for that failure.

“Maybe we could change public perception of atomic rockets, but I just don’t see that happening anytime soon. That leaves one possible answer: a more energetic fuel source with a higher thrust to weight ratio.”