Russian Spring (13 page)

“They want us to scale the plane up to carry 250 passengers and lose the orbital capability,” André said. “Now we
do
have a compromise design, a version capable of flying 175 passengers as a suborbital liner that could take about seventy-five people or a nice cargo load into Low Earth Orbit, given extra fuel and life-support oxygen. . . .”

“But to get a good production run of the compromise version financed, we have to give the full orbital capability an economic justification,” Fabre said.

“Which presently doesn’t exist,” said Bannister. “We’re between a rock and a hard place. We can build three smaller Daedaluses with orbital capability on the
ESA
budget, or we can get the financing for a fleet of bigger hypersonic airliners with no orbital capability. . . .”

“Or find some way to justify the compromise version,” André said.

“The Geosynchronous space station!” Jerry exclaimed, finally getting the drift of it.

“Right, Jerry,” André said. “The Méridien people have already agreed to finance 20 percent of it with a resort in
GEO
provided we first guarantee them a transportation system that can get the customers there. We have interest from several companies willing to invest in the project in order to build retirement communities for the elderly rich and zero-g hospitals and convalescent homes. It will be an ideal base from which to launch and service communication satellites.”

“And it will be the logistical base needed to make a real Moon colony viable,” Bannister said.

“Which can be expanded using lunar material at less than half the cost of boosting it from Earth . . .”

“Making it possible to assemble large ships able to support a permanent settlement on Mars . . .”

“And bring back iron asteroids from the Belt . . .”

“Eventually water ice from the Jovian satellites . . .”

“You’re talking about building a real city in space!” Jerry exclaimed. “You’re talking about opening up the whole solar system!”

Ian Bannister’s eyes bored right into him with an intensity that Jerry had not seen for years, a fire of engineering passion he had long since thought had gone from the world, and for a moment, it seemed as if Rob Post’s eyes from long ago were looking back at him over a big bowl of Häagen-Dazs chocolate ice cream swimming in Hershey’s chocolate syrup, and a thrill went through him as Bannister spoke in a hard, cold, determined voice.

“You’re bloody damned straight we are, my lad,” he said.

“Of course all that will be the work of decades,” Fabre said.

“But we know how to do it, Dominique,” Bannister insisted. “No major breakthroughs are required. All we’ve got to do is roll up our sleeves and get to work!”

“And put the financial package together, Ian,” André Deutcher pointed out. “Which brings us to Project Icarus, Jerry.”

“The missing piece in the puzzle,” Fabre said. “Ian . . . ?”

“What we need is a means for getting the Daedalus from Low Earth Orbit out to
GEO
,” Bannister said. “Something like one of your bloody military sat sleds writ large. Take off from an airport runway, fly into
LEO
, then attach a propulsion module to take it to
GEO
, you’ve seen the presentation at Parc de la Villette . . .”

“
That’s
Project Icarus?”

Bannister nodded. “Well?” he said.

For a long moment everyone was silent, as Jerry felt the pressure of all their eyes turned on him. “Well what?” he finally said.

“Well, what do you think, lad!” Bannister snapped.

Jerry looked in turn from Bannister to André to Fabre and back to Bannister, wondering just what to say.

The vision that they had opened up before him was enormous, exhilarating, the return of the long-gone dream that had set his boyhood spirit soaring, and he felt an energy in the room, a connectivity, a passion, and a hope, that left him feeling like a little boy with his nose pressed to a pastry-shop window, and he longed to return that enthusiasm with a positive reply that would admit him to this charmed circle.

The truth, however, was something else again, and with a nervous little sigh, Jerry Reed at last opted for it.

“It’s shit for the birds,” he said.

The silence was deadly. The stares were unwavering. Jerry stared straight into the Englishman’s eyes. Bannister didn’t give him a clue. There seemed nothing for it but to go on.

“Any magnetic clamps strong enough to take the acceleration
would screw up your electronic systems royally,” he said. “Where you’ve got the sled clamped, the rocket exhaust will fry the vehicle. If the thrust isn’t directly along the center axis of the Daedalus, your chances of controlling the thing are slim and none.”

He shrugged. “I’m sorry, Ian,” he said, “but there you are. No one’s ever tried to build a sat sled to move a payload that massive before, but it
is
essentially scaled-up sat-sled technology, and I’ve been working on it for years, and I do know what I’m talking about. What can I say? The whole design is fucked.”

Jerry braced himself for the inevitable explosion.

But it never came.

“We know that, lad,” Bannister said softly. “And we also know, as you have just proven, that the Rockwell sat-sled team is years ahead of us. We know that you have what it takes to help us turn that bloody sword into a marvelous plowshare.”

The expense-account holiday, the Ritz, Nicole, all the money
ESA
had lavished on him, it all suddenly began to make sense to Jerry. They weren’t just recruiting a bright young engineer; the bad luck that had landed him in the lousy sat-sled program had, through a brighter turn of fate, made him someone special, someone with access to the key piece of technology to make this whole wonderful scheme work. What delicious irony that the job he hated was the very thing that had dropped this sweet plum right into his lap!

The Italian, Nicola Brandusi, had said not a word during all this tech talk, sitting back in his chair as if it were all Greek or worse to him, but now he leaned forward, smiled at Jerry, and all at once became the focus of attention.

“We are prepared to make you an offer now, Mr. Reed,” he said. “Ten thousand
ECU
a month, plus full social benefits, with annual salary reviews. A fifty-thousand
ECU
relocation bonus provided you sign a three-year contract, and of course the full resources of
ESA
in helping you find suitable quarters here in Paris.”

“To work on my team, Jerry,” Bannister said. “What do you say, lad?”

“It sure is tempting,” Jerry blurted, for of course it was, nor was it entirely unexpected, for André Deutcher had made it clear from the very beginning that this was the purpose of
ESA
’s beneficence, though the financial terms were quite a bit juicier than Jerry had imagined. Then again, the sat-sled technology that was
his
end of the deal made it a bargain in their terms at twice the price.

Still, now that the offer was actually on the table, he found himself in something of a state of shock.

“Take your time, Mr. Reed,” Brandusi said. “We realize that this is not a step to be taken lightly.”

“By all means, take your time, enjoy Paris,” Bannister said good-naturedly, “there’ll be time enough for me to work your arse off later!”

“We can talk about it over lunch, Jerry,” André Deutcher suggested. “There is quite a decent little Moroccan place not far from—”

“If you don’t mind, I think I’d just like to go back to the hotel,” Jerry muttered. “I’m not very hungry right now, and I need some time to think. . . .”

And indeed, he found himself lost in his own thoughts already, even as the meeting broke up in smiles and handshakes.

What the Europeans were planning was grand indeed, and if they succeeded, it would be in significant measure because of the spacetug they were asking him to help design, and his fantasies were already racing ahead to the next step, to something they had apparently not yet thought of, for if you linked the tug technology to the American shuttle tanks that were now being wasted with every launch, why you could cobble together spaceliners capable of taking tourists as far as the Moon, and maybe even Mars, and if he was instrumental in getting
that
built, he could surely promote himself a berth on it, and . . .

All his life, he had been waiting for a chance like this, waiting for a chance to be, as Rob Post had said, one of the people who made the golden age of space exploration happen, one of the people who would live to set foot on the Moon, on Mars, even beyond, and all his life he had known that when that chance came, he would take it without a moment’s hesitation.

But that it would mean leaving everything and everyone he had ever known to do it . . .

That he would even consider doing such a thing . . .

That he would even consider
not
leaping at the chance . . .

He could walk on water.

He would indeed have to give up everything else to do it.

But he
could
walk on water.

Sonya Gagarin was beginning to wonder how long it was going to take for her luck to change. This was the second party Pierre Glautier had taken her to, and from the look of things, it was going to be the second party she left with Pierre. Not that she minded, but his London porn star was going to arrive in two days, and if Sonya didn’t connect up with someone interesting by then, she’d have to make plans for the rest of her vacation on her own.

Pierre would take just about any journalistic assignment he could hustle up—from rock-music coverage and low-down items like the
English sex-disc-to-order business, to lightweight popular treatment of subjects as serious as the election of a new Pope or the Common Europe space program, meaning that one of the charms of partying with Pierre was that you could never predict the sort of scene you would find yourself in next.

But it could become rather exasperating too. Last night’s soiree had been the launch party for a magazine called
La Cuisine Humaine
, dedicated to transnational gourmandizing, and had featured an incredible buffet of the most diverse and delicious dishes from around the world that Sonya had ever stuffed herself silly on.

Unfortunately, most of the men at the party were well into early middle age, more of them than not were in attendance with their wives, and not only seemed boringly obsessed with the free food and drink they were greedily cramming down their throats, but clearly displayed the results of their primary passion around the waist and buttocks.

Pierre had promised her that tonight’s party would be much more interesting, but he hadn’t exactly made it clear that he was dragging her to a reception being given by a fashion and photographers’ model agency for the purpose of displaying their pulchritudinous wares to attendees of an international advertising convention.

Pierre was supposedly covering this event for
Paris par Nuit
, or so at least he claimed to all the models he had been trying to “interview” for the past three hours, while Sonya fended off the advances of drunken advertising executives who assumed that any woman there must be willing to sleep with the unwholesome likes of them in the foolish expectation of landing a lucrative assignment. The only thing that kept her from being quite furious with Pierre was the same thing that kept the party from being a total bore, her amusement at watching the models inflict upon him the punishment he so richly deserved.

Pierre would sidle up to a beautiful model, begin to engage her in small talk. She would flash him a stunning smile of professionally inviting warmth, thinking he was an advertising executive or art director who could hire her, and then shut it off like a flashlight beam and give poor Pierre the cold shoulder when she realized he was only a journalist trying to come on to her.

“Poor Pierre,” Sonya cooed at him sarcastically, as she came up behind him after the latest one had cut him dead. “You can look, but you can’t touch. . . .”

Pierre turned with the most frustrated look on his face, but almost immediately regained his savoir-faire and gave Sonya his best insouciant smile.

“Oh come, come, chérie, surely it is obvious to you that I have not really been trying,” he said. “I realized as soon as we got here that
there would be no men of interest for you, and so I was not so ungallant as to entice any of these creatures to my lair even though I could have easily enough had my choice. . . .”

“How thoughtful of you, Pierre,” Sonya said dryly, and then could not stop herself from giggling.

“Bien sûr,” Pierre replied, cracking a silly grin himself. “I’m glad to see you appreciate the enormous restraint I’ve been exercising.”

“Oh, certainement,” Sonya said, taking his hand and kissing him lightly on the lips, “and I’ll be happy to show my appreciation back at the apartment if you’re ready to get out of here.”

“That’s the best offer I’ve had all night.”

“That’s the
only
offer you’ve had all night,” Sonya said, and they both burst into good-natured laughter.

“Ah well, pas problem, tomorrow is another day. And tomorrow night is another party.”

“I hope it’s more promising than the last two,” Sonya said. “I haven’t forgotten that Miss Magic Mouth from London is arriving the day after.”

“Miss Magic—?” Pierre slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Merde!” he exclaimed. “Would you believe it, I had forgotten!”

“Not really,” Sonya muttered.

“Not to worry, chérie, not to worry,” Pierre assured her. “Tomorrow’s party will be truly transnational. Englishmen, Italians, Dutch, Germans, Belgians, who knows, perhaps an Albanian, a Maltese, a New Zealander, or even the legendary Andorran to add to your collection!”

Jerry Reed was lost, not quite thoroughly lost, perhaps, but lost enough, as lost as he had set out to be.

As long as he could find north, which was easy enough from the time of day and the position of the sun in the sky, he could find the Seine, from whose banks he could easily enough find the Louvre and the Tuileries, at the other side of which was the Place Vendôme and the Ritz. For that matter, all he really had to do was hail a cab and tell the driver “Hotel Ritz” and he’d be delivered effortlessly back to the hotel.