Дэймон Найт - Orbit 8

“Yes. Although it isn’t much of a plan, really.” He leaned forward. “We have been this route before. We are confronted with a scientific crisis. The Sun is changing. Our weather control is no longer as accurate, and we may have other dangers we don’t even know about yet. The Advisors tell me that these unexpected changes in the Sun might be serious, far more so than our failure to control weather accurately. We don’t know what’s happening. So here we go again, but this time I’m afraid we will have to mount the largest and most expensive research program the world has ever seen. It is already possible to tell that the answers won’t be easy to get. The Weather Bureau has not seen any changes at all, so the Advisors think things must be happening deep inside the Sun. We’ve never been able to go deep, so the first scientific order of business will be to solve that one.”

“Costs, Jonathan?” It was Du Bois, always a worrier about other people’s money.

“Enormous, Georges. This is why we will have to be so careful. The tax burden will be the largest we’ve ever asked our people to bear. But unless someone can think of another program, I think we’ll have to sell it.”

Barstow said, “Do you mind if I talk to Greenberg? I want to be able to assure my constituents that I’ve looked into this personally.”

“I hope everyone here will do that, and more. Please talk to any person you want, scientific or not, on any possible solutions he may have. Let’s adjourn now and meet here in twenty-four hours to thrash it out.”

Tongareva stayed, as Wilburn knew he would. He said, “Who’s going to head up the program?”

Wilburn looked at him and smiled. “Need you ask? Aren’t Dr. Jefferson Potter and Senior Boatmaster James Eden the ones to do the job?”

Greenberg seemed upset. “Look, with all due respect to you two, I don’t think you see the ramifications of the problem. First”—he counted on his fingers—”the trouble appears to lie deep within the Sun. Second, we don’t have a vehicle that can penetrate deeper than about two miles; in fact, Jim”—he looked at Eden—”no one has ever equaled that depth you reached some years ago on that Anderson problem. Third, we can’t even take measurements at those depths. Fourth, our theories of occurrences at those depths have never been proved out.” He dropped his hands. “We are probably in a worse position than we were when we first approached the problem of Sun control as a means of weather control.”

Potter and Eden stared reflectively at Greenberg. Then Potter said, “You know, he’s just given us an overall breakdown.” Greenberg wondered what he was talking about, then realized that Potter was talking to Eden.

Eden said, still looking at Greenberg, “Yes, and he’s the man in the best position to make the judgment so far. Four main groups along those lines, with good cross liaison. He’s come up with a great way to start out, at least.”

Potter said, “Four scientific administrators, each with a cabinet of a dozen or so people with assigned responsibilities. Each of the four groups places its own R&D and hires its own people.”

Eden said, “Each cabinet has a member responsible for cross liaison with the other groups. In fact, each cabinet member has sole responsibility for an assigned area. He’ll have his own staff to help administer his group.”

It was Potter’s turn again. “Any overlapping can be minimized by frequent meetings of the big four. Ought to work. Now let’s see. All the problems come together on the Sun, so I guess that’s where you ought to be. I’ll stay here to keep things on the track. We can get together every month or so if necessary. How’s that sound to you, Bob?”

Greenberg had caught the drift of the discussion and had been following it, fascinated. He nodded. “Sounds fine to me. Where do the Advisors come into this?”

“Seems to me you should be standing by for any extraordinary computing problems, of which there will be plenty. Don’t forget you will also have the day-to-day work going on as usual. You had better increase your staff here, don’t you think?”

Greenberg nodded. “Yes, but I can see some problems in getting enough scientific personnel to do all the work on the overall project. Well wind up with one of our groups bidding against another.”

“Bound to happen. We’ll try to keep it to a minimum.”

Potter said, “All right. I’ll get on the horn and well start the ball rolling. Wilburn ought to be explaining things to everybody right about now.”

Only two of the two hundred councilmen were absent, and Wilburn knew those two were in the hospital. Furthermore, the councilmen sat on the edge of their seats, listening intently to the voices booming over their desk speakers. Wilburn looked down impassively from his desk, but he was deeply shaken. The debate had gone on for three hours with no interruptions for any reason, and the opposition to the proposed research program was surprisingly strong. What was worse, the mood of the Council was emotional to a degree Wilburn had never seen before. Even Councilman Reardon of 35-50 E 30-45 N, normally a cool speaker, ended his five minutes with his voice broken and quavering. Wilburn frantically tried to think of a way to break the spell, to interject somehow a rational appeal. But he could not prevent the councilmen from obtaining their five minutes to speak. Many of them were so carried away with what they were saying that they did not see the thirty-second warning light on their desks, and they were cut off in mid-sentence by the sergeant at arms when their five minutes were up, left sobbing at a dead microphone.

Wilburn quietly turned to his desk, checked his directory, and dialed the desk of the next speaker, Francisco Espaiyat, 60-75 W 15-30 N. “Frank,” he said, “you getting ready to speak?”

“I certainly am, Wilburn. I’ve come up with some reasons that haven’t been mentioned yet, so I hope to do some good here. You got any particular suggestions?”

Wilburn hesitated. “Yes, I have, Frank, but I don’t know whether to ask you to do it or not. See what you think. When you come on, simply state that you are in favor of the program, and then leave the rest of your time empty. Give us four minutes and fifty-five seconds of golden silence for a little somber reflection along with a quick trip to the bathroom. I don’t like to ask you to give up your speaking time, but nobody yet has got through to these hotheads. What do you think?”

Espaiyat thought about it and then said slowly, “I don’t know if it will work, Jonathan, but I’m willing to give it a try.”

Three minutes later, when the sergeant at arms announced the speech of Councilman Espaiyat, the Council was startled to hear, “I speak in favor of the program, but I hereby devote the balance of my time to rest and relief from this interminable speechmaking.” Espaiyat got up and started down the aisle. Immediately Wilburn got up and went out the door nearest him. After a moment’s looking around the chamber in puzzlement, every other councilman suddenly got up and headed for a door, and as they pressed out to the corridors, some of them began to laugh. A low chant of “Yay, Espaiyat” started up from a few members and quickly spread over the entire chamber and up to the galleries, which were also emptying.

When they poured back to their desks a few minutes later, the spell was broken. Men and women chatted and called to one another. The next speaker, Madame Iwanowski, 45-60 E 45-60 N, spoke against the program, but she tried to marshal some facts. She yielded after two minutes twenty-eight seconds. The crisis had passed. Other speakers disgorged their thoughts, but the tenor of the speeches was only mildly argumentative, for the sake of the constituency back home. In half an hour the question was called and the vote taken. The tabulation flashed on the great board. A small cheer broke out from the floor and gallery. The vote was 133 for, 65 against. Wilburn sat impassively, staring out over the floor, ignoring the numbness that had come back in his legs. They had the required two-thirds vote, but it was much, much too close. On a project of this size he needed all the support in the Council he could get, but about one-third of the group was against him. He sighed. This would not do. There were hard times ahead. If this program didn’t work out, he saw clearly who the scapegoat would be. For the first time a President of the Weather Congress would not so much step down as be thrown out. Well, that was politics. Harriet would be waiting for him when it was over, and they could always take up a pleasurable retirement. Key West, now, there was a place he had always loved, and perhaps the same had come to— He caught himself and straightened his shoulders. No time for retirement thoughts yet. There was work to be done. He headed for his office to call Greenberg.