Stephen Baxter - Time

But there was no way a comparable mission to Cruithne could be achieved.

There was a way to meet the mission’s main objectives, however. In fact it would be possible to get Sheena to Cruithne much more rapidly.

By cutting her life support, and burning everything up on the way out.

For Sheena, a Cruithne voyage would be one way.

Emma Stoney:

From Emma’s perspective, sitting in her office in Vegas, every-

thing was starting to fall apart.

The legalistic vultures were hovering over Malenfant and his toy spaceships, and meanwhile the investors, made distrustful by rumors of Malenfant’s growing involvement with bizarre fu-turian types, were starting to desert.

If Malenfant had made himself more available, more visible to shore up confidence, it might have made a difference. But he didn’t. Right through Christmas and into the New Year Malenfant remained locked away with Cornelius Taine, or holed up at his rocket test site.

It seemed to Emma events were approaching a climax. But still Malenfant wouldn’t listen to her.

So Emma went to the Mojave.

Emma stayed the night in a motel in the town of Mojave itself.

She was profoundly uncomfortable, and slept little.

Her transport arrived before dawn. It was an army bus. When she climbed aboard, George Bench was waiting for her. He had a flask of coffee and a bagel. “Breakfast,” he said. She accepted gratefully; the coffee was industrial strength, bat welcome.

The other passengers were young engineers trying to sleep with their heads jammed in corners by the windows.

The drive out to the BOB test site was dull but easy. The sun had risen, the heat climbing, by the time they hit the thirty-mile road to Malenfant’s BOB launch complex — or launch simplex, as he liked to call it.

Hench jammed open the bus window. “Natural air-conditioning,” he said, cackling.

She glanced back. One or two of the youngsters behind them stirred.

Hench shrugged. “They’ll sleep.”

At the site the bus passed through the security fence and pulled over, and Emma climbed down cautiously. The light glared from the sand that covered everything, and the heat was a palpable presence that struck at her, sucking the moisture from her flesh.

The test site had grown. There were a lot more structures, a lot more activity even at this hour of the morning. But it was nothing like Cape Canaveral.

There were hardly any fixed structures at all. The place had the air of a construction site. There were trailers scattered over the desert, some sprouting antennae and telecommunications feeds. There weren’t even any fuel tanks that she could see, just fleets of trailers, frost gleaming on their tanks. People — engineers, most of them young — moved to and fro, their voices small in the desert’s expanse, their hard hats gleaming like insect carapaces.

And there was the pad itself, the center of attention, maybe a mile from where she stood, bearing the Nautilus: Bootstrap’s first interplanetary ship, Reid Malenfant’s pride and joy. She saw the lines of a rust-brown shuttle external tank and the slim pillars of solid rocket boosters. The stack was topped by a tubular cover that gleamed white in the sun. Somewhere inside that fairing, she knew, a Caribbean reef squid, disoriented as all hell, would someday ride into space.

Hench said gruffly, “I’ll tell you, Ms. Stoney—”

“Emma.”

“Working with those kids has been the best part of this whole damn project, for me. You know, these kids today come out of graduate school, and they are real whizzes with Computer Aided This and That, and they do courses in science theory and math and software design — but they don’t get to bend tin. Not only that, they’ve never seen anything^M before. In engineering, experience gained is directly proportional to the amount of equipment ruined. No wonder this country has fallen behind in every sphere that counts. Well, here they’ve had to build stuff, to budget and schedule. Some of the kids were scared off. But those that remained flourished.”

And here came Malenfant. He was wearing beat-up overalls — he even had a wrench in a loop at his waist — and his face and hands and scalp were covered in white dust patches. He bent to kiss her, and she could feel gritty sand on her cheek.

“So what do you think ofNautilusl Isn’t she beautiful?”

“Kind of rough and ready.”

Malenfant laughed. “So she’s supposed to be.”

An amplified voice drifted across the desert from the launchpad.

“What was that?”

Hench shrugged. “Just a checklist item.”

“You’re going through a checklist? A launch checklist?”

“Demonstration test only,” Malenfant said. “We’re planning two tests today. We’ve done it a dozen times, already. Later today we’ll even have that damn squid of Dan Ystebo’s up in the pay-load pod, on top of a fully fueled ship. We’reready. And Cruithne is up there waiting for us. And who knows what lies beyond that. As soon as you can clear away the legal bullshit—”

“We’re working on it, Malenfant.”

Malenfant took her for a walk around the booster pad, eager to show off his toy. Malenfant and Hench, obviously high on stress and adrenaline, launched into war stories about how they’d built their rocket ship. “The whole thing is a backyard rocket,” Malenfant said. “It has space shuttle engines, and an F-15 laser gyro set and accelerometer, and the autopilot and avionics from an MD-11 airliner. In fact the BOB thinks it’s an MD-11 on a peculiar flight path. We sent the grad school kids scouring through the West Coast aerospace junkyards, and they came back with titanium pressure spheres and hydraulic actuators and other good stuff. And so on. Assembled and flight-ready in six months.”

He seemed to know every one of the dozens of engineers here by name. He was, by turns, manipulative, bullying, brutal, overbearing. But he was, she thought, always smart enough to ensure he wasn’t surrounded by sycophants and yea-sayers.

Maybe that’s why he keeps me on.

“How safe is all this, Malenfant? What if the ship blows up, or a fuel store—”

He sighed. “Emma, my BDBs will blow up about as often as a 747 blows up on takeoff. The industries have been handling lox and liquid hydrogen safely for half a century. In fact I can prove we’re safe. We’ve kept the qual and reliability processes as simple as possible — no hundred-mile NASA paper chains — and we put the people on the ground in charge of their own quality. Qual up front, the only way to do it.” He looked into the sun, and the light caught the dust plastered over his face, white lines etched into the weather-beaten wrinkles of his face. “You know, this is just the beginning,” he said. “Right now this is Kitty Hawk. You got to start somewhere. But someday this will be a true spaceport.”

“Like Cape Canaveral?”

“Oh, hell, no. Think of an airport. You’ll have concrete launch-pads with minimal gantries, so simple we don’t care if we have to rebuild them every flight. We’ll have our own propellant and oxi-dizer manufacturing facilities right here. The terminal buildings will be just like JFK or O’Hare. They’ll build new roads out here, better rail links. The spaceport will be an airport too. We’ll attract industries, communities. People will live here.”

But she heard tension in his voice, under the bubbling faith. She’d gotten used to his mood swings, which seemed to her to have begun around the time he was washed out of NASA. But today his mood was obviously fragile, and, with a little push, liable to come crashing apart.

The legal battle wasn’t won yet. Far from it. In fact, Emma thought, it was more like a race, as Bootstrap lawyers sought to find a way through the legal maze that would allow Malenfant to launch, or at least keep testing, before the FAA inspectors and their lawyers found a way to get access to this site and shut everything down.