Instead of simply supplying raw lunar materials to the corporations that want to build solar power satellites, we could have a monopoly on the fuel for fusion power.
All the way back to Savannah Rashid dreamed about turning Masterson Aerospace into the world’s leading energy company. Fusion power. Enough energy to irrigate the world’s deserts, to light the world’s cities, to bring the poorest of the poor into the glow of the modern world. All based on helium-three from the Moon. All developed by Masterson Corporation’s space operations division. By me.
He pictured himself as president and CEO of Masterson Aerospace. As the most important and powerful man in America; in the world; in the whole Earth-Moon system.
One small cloud troubled his vision. The helium-three would be produced by nanomachines, and there was enormous resistance to anything touched by nanotechnology. Still, Rashid assured himself, if we have to we can extract the helium-three by older methods. It will raise the price somewhat, but not. too much.
He smiled again, satisfied that even the New Morality could not stop his inevitable rise to wealth and fame and power.
Doug left the meeting with Greg and his mother in a turmoil of conflicting emotions. They shot Quintana. Some New Morality fanatic gunned him down at the U.N. building. Because he was against the treaty. Or was it because he was living proof that nanotherapy can cure cancer? Maybe both reasons. Probably both.
As he strode down the tunnel he realized all over again that he could not return to Earth. Even if they let me through customs I’d be a marked man. Every nutcase in the world would come after me.
With a shake of his head, he tried to clear his mind of Quintana’s assassination and think through the idea of moving Moonbase’s legal ownership to Kiribati. With a half-bitter smile, Doug remembered an economics professor from his first year at Caltech telling the class, “Figures don’t lie, but liars sure can figure.”
Let them make their treaty; we’ll find a way around it Kiribati will have the highest per-capita income on Earth, just from the bribes Mom and Greg will spread around.
We can’t let them stop us from using nanomachines here. We can’t! It would be like stopping New York City from using elevators. The city would die.
One way or another we’ve got to keep on using our nanomachines. Otherwise we’ll have to shut down Moonbase. And then what about me? They’d have to let me come back Earthside. But if I do I’ll be a target for every brain-dead New Morality zealot who can get his hands on a gun.
Doug tried to push that fear out of his mind and concentrate on what had to be done.
For the past six months Doug had worked on the Mt. Wasser power tower project and building the pipeline from the ice fields at the south pole back to Moonbase. Negotiations were under way to sell water to Yamagata’s Nippon One and the Euro-Russian base over at Grimaldi.
But Doug knew that the ice fields were limited. He had helped to map them, down in the perpetual shadows of the polar mountains, and to probe their depths. There’s enough water there to provide for all three of the bases on the Moon; with recycling, the water should last for decades, maybe half a century, even. But there’s not enough to allow us to grow! That’s the problem. It’s a no-growth solution — which means no solution at all. Moonbase has got to grow. Or eventually die. Somehow, we’ve got to figure out how to get water and the other life-support volatiles we need from elsewhere in the solar system.
Grow or die. Just like any living organism, any society. You either grow or you wither away and disappear.
He realized his fists were clenched as he marched along the tunnel. Passersby were giving him strange looks. Doug tried to smile at them, tried to appear relaxed. But inside he was stretched tight.
There’s going to be a split with Earth, Doug knew. This nanotech treaty is just the beginning. They must know, down there, that we can’t exist without nanomachines. It would’ve taken years to build a pipeline from the south pole, instead of months. The cost of building the power tower would have been out of sight if we didn’t have nanomachines to do the work.
How can we prevent the split? How can we keep connected with Earth, at least until we’re fully self-sufficient?
He pushed back the door to his room, forming a scenario in his mind: Okay, we establish the legalities that we’re a corporation based in Kiribati and the Kiribati government doesn’t sign the nanotech treaty. But suppose the U.N. or the World Court doesn’t accept that? Suppose they insist that we’ve got to give up our nanomachines? And we can’t, of course. Suppose they send Peacekeeper troops up here to enforce their demands!
Doug sagged onto his bunk. Jeez, we’ve got to figure out a way to prevent that from happening. But how?
Without thinking consciously about it, he flicked on the Windowall screen hanging opposite his bunk. Instantly the screen seemed to turn into a big picture window that looked out at the floor of Alphonsus. Doug stared out at the scene for a few moments, then went to his desk and pecked at his keyboard. The ’window’ showed Victoria Falls, then an underwater scene from a tropical reef. Not satisfied, Doug finally got a live view from the top of Alphonsus’ ringwall mountains that looked out across Mare Nubium.
“Magnificent desolation,” he murmured. The barren plain was empty, not a sign that a human being had ever set foot on it, except for the faint glow of a handful of red beacons that marked the sites of the old temporary shelters marching off to the sudden horizon.
If Greg looked out there, Doug thought, he’d see nothing but barren wilderness. But I see beauty. I see freedom. I see the opportunity to explore and learn and grow and build the future. How can I make Greg see it the way I do?
He was still wondering about the problem as he put on his VR helmet and data gloves, booted up his computer and linked with his afternoon class from Caltech.
ROCKET PORT
Doug always asked permission to come into the rocket port’s flight control center. It was a tiny cubbyhole burned out of the lunar rock by plasma torches back in the earliest days of Moonbase, barely large enough for two controllers sitting shoulder to shoulder at their consoles. It always reminded Doug of an old-time submarine’s command compartment, compact and crowded, jammed with equipment that hummed and glowed and gave off heat. Despite Greg’s swath of new radiators, the flight control center was stuffy and sweaty.
It even had a conning tower, sort of. There was a vertical tunnel that led up to a minuscule observation bubble, barely big enough for a person to stick his head up above the surface of the crater floor for a visual inspection of the rocket pads outside.
The controllers had never refused Doug permission to come into the center, tight though it was. Usually Doug clambered up the ladder to the observation bubble, leaving the controllers to huddle over their glowing display screens.
Traffic was seldom heavy. The lunar transfer vehicles plied the route between Earth orbit and Moonbase on a monotonously steady schedule. Rarely were there two spacecraft on the pads at the same time, even though Moonbase boasted four pads for LTVs to land on, spaced equidistantly from the observation bubble.
Standing on the narrow platform of the observation bubble, his chin barely above the crater floor’s surface and his hair brushing the transparent dome, Doug watched the lander come down slowly, silently, its dirty-white rocket exhaust splashing on the smoothed rock pad, blowing dust and pebbles that rattled against the bubble’s glassteel dome. Doug could barely see the actual touchdown, when the big ungainly lunar transfer vehicle settled on its outstretched spindly legs like an old, old man sinking into a favorite easy chair.
From below he heard the chatter of the controllers as they remotely manipulated the access tunnel to lock against the LTV’s personnel hatch. To Doug it looked like a giant gray worm blindly groping for its prey.