“Unless every computer in the Belt is malfunctioning,” said VettiLou Propokov, “the Express is theoretically strong enough to support a constant 4.6 g’s and a splashdown at a speed two and a half times greater than the one actually programmed. To reduce costs, of course, our actual propulsion system will only be thrusting at .087 g’s for three and a half days, but that’s still enough to get it to Earth in a little over twenty-four days. I give you my word, Mister Minister, the Ore-ball Express will function exactly as designed—and will deliver 55,000 tons of highly refined nickel-iron to Port Pomaré for 23 percent less than any competitor on the Moon or in the Belt.”
“There’s really 55,000 tons in that ball?” demanded another of the Tahitians. This one’s face was covered by an intricate pattern of blue and black tattoos that made him look more like a ceremonial devil’s mask than a human being.
“Absolutely. A cubic meter of refined ore weighs about 1,600 kilograms at one standard Earth gravity. The wall of the ore-ball will be exactly three meters thick, with an exterior surface area of 12,870 square meters and an interior volume of 92,000 cubic meters—according to our computer modeling the perfect proportion of cargo to flotation value to cost.” VettiLou Propokov flicked her pale blue eyes from one Polynesian face to the next. “Believe me, it will work.”
“For 78 million solid gold Belter buckles,” I said dryly, finally breaking my long silence, “it had better work. Especially from Mr. Choupette’s point of view. Fourteen percent of those 78 million are his.”
“Except that your Monsieur Choupette didn’t actually put a single buckle of his own into this project, either plastic or gold,” groused the Minister of Development equally dryly. “The only thing Hartman, Bemis & Choupette has done for us was to handle the initial stock offering—and take 13.64 percent of the ownership in return. Her Majesty the Queen is still smarting about that.”
It was clear that Polynesians still didn’t grasp the concept of venture capital. Diplomatically, I shifted the subject. “The ore-ball’s only 800,000 klicks away, about seven hours at a constant .5 g. If you’d like to visit it, we’ve made arrangements for a ship. We can leave anytime you’d like.”
“As soon as we can,” said the Tahitian with the tattooed devil’s mask. “The industrial zone at Port Pomaré is still under construction. As soon as we’re assured that the Express will be on schedule, we’ll step up the pace to make certain it’s finished in time for the Independence Day ceremonies.”
“And exactly which day is that?” I asked. I always have trouble remembering the significant dates of the three or four thousand squabbling nation-states that make up Earth.
“Why, the 10th of August, the 281st anniversary of the day we achieved our independence from the French colonialists.” Everyone in the delegation of Polynesians seemed surprised that I didn’t know the date by heart.
It was my turn to be surprised as we drifted through the brightly lighted interior of the Ore-ball Express inside our borrowed powersuits. In the four days since the hologram we’d seen at the Ritz-Carlton had actually been filmed, the basic structure of the ore-ball had been completed and a simple airlock installed in its thick wall of highly compacted nickel-iron ore. A dozen figures in powersuits darted about the relatively tight confines of its interior in purposeful fashion. Some of them, it was obvious, were checking the inner wall of the multi-million-buckle ore-ball for structural defects. The others were occupied in less obvious ways.
“You didn’t know about that?” marveled VettiLou Propokov, her big blue eyes batting at me innocently from behind the faceplate of her powersuit. “That’s the acceleration couch we’re installing for the Crown Prince.”
“The acceleration couch? The Crown Prince?” Now that I knew what we were dealing with, I could see that the device mounted in the middle of a complex system of heavy-duty gimbals was indeed an acceleration couch, a very well padded one. The gimbals, in turn, were secured in the center of the ore-ball by an elaborate structure of tubing sprouting from all sides of the walls.
“That,” said VettiLou Propokov complacently, “is the chair that Crown Prince Ata of Raiatea will be sitting in when the Ore-ball Express makes its historic descent from Earth orbit to splashdown at Port Pomare. All those tanks, tubing, and hoses you see are the life-support system—not that he’ll need very much: it’s only a seventy-seven-minute ride from orbit to splashdown.”
“From orbit to splashdown?” I frankly goggled. “You mean a human being is going to ride this thing down at a million klicks an hour?”
“Much, much slower than that.” I could see her shrug inside her powersuit. “It’s to prove how safe the ore-ball is. That’s why the Crown Prince himself will be the passenger. No one has ever done anything like this before—everyone in the Solar System will be watching: it’ll generate enormous publicity. If the Crown Prince is willing to risk his skin, it’s got to be safe.”
“Safe.” I slowly raised my jaw from where it had been hanging on my chest. “Has anyone asked the Crown Prince his opinion of this?”
“Not yet,” VettiLou Propokov conceded. “But he’ll go, all right. His mother the Queen will speak to him very’ firmly about the matter—she can be very persuasive.”
I could believe that. I’d seen holograms of Her Royal Highness Queen Teraimateata Mara Pomaré, Protector of the Seas, Fisher of the Heavens, and Dancer upon the Waves. She was as big around as any three sumo wrestlers together, and her round brown face was fixed in a permanent scowl that make J. Davis Alexander’s seem merry by comparison.
“Besides,” the Belter engineer added, “we’ve got a bit of an inducement on board for the Prince courtesy of some shareholders on Pallas.” She nodded in the direction of a half-dozen gleaming metal drums that were being attached to the far side of the curved wall. “His Highness is, let us say, a man who will take a drink from time to time. Even two or three of them, if you see what I mean.”
“In other words—a drunk.”
“Well, yes. Apparently he particularly likes fruit brandies. There’s a French immigrant with a hydroponic orchard over on Hygeia who’s been distilling the stuff for years now.” She shuddered convulsively. “Horrible stuff: sweet and sticky, completely colorless, and all of it at least 180 proof.” She gestured at the barrels. “It’s also so harsh you could sell it as paint remover, or, if you ignited a barrel, you could use it as a propulsion unit and drive the whole damn ore-ball to Earth.”
I wasn’t completely convinced of that, but, as I lifted my own infinitely more civilized glass of Pernod and water to my lips at the Café des Mondes, my thoughts drifted back to the drums of high-priced rot-gut stored away inside the Ore-ball Express.
“It’s tiny details like that,” I pontificated, “that sometimes make the difference between a successful stock offering and a failure. I have to admit it, whoever thought of this stunt of using the Crown Prince is a genius. But personally I’d rather go over Angel Falls in a gravy boat.”
Isabel, my long-time girlfriend, grinned at me over her tequila sunrise, then shook her glossy black bangs. “I thought you’d already had your stock offering, the one that made Hartman, Bemis & Choupette 13.64 percent part-owners of this holding company that owns the ore-ball.”