But the Janus planners were talking about using the gamma rays directly, via some mythical “reflector.” The photon drive that science fiction writers mumbled about for a century. Problem is, this reflector has to be absolutely efficient, and not just to get the most for your money. If one hundredth of one percent of that radiation leaked through, everybody aboard the ship would be fried in an instant.
As I say, though, the work was interesting (and, conversely, the strength-of-materials aspects of the Tsiolkovski reconstruction were simple numbercrunching), so I never voiced my doubts publicly. I stopped being sarcastic in private, too, when O’Hara dived into the demographics work. When she gets a bug in her brain about something she loses her sense of humor.
Now that I’ve been proven wrong, both she and Dan can stand on the solid bedrock of hindsight and catalog the errors of my ways. Dan just contends that I underestimated the cumulative creativity of a thousand out-of-work physicists. (About what you would expect from a chemical engineer. By the time they get their degrees, they’ve taken so many physics and chemistry courses that they’re thoroughly brainwashed.) So I was wrong on that score: they did develop a workable reflector. Then they turned particle physics inside out and came up with this damned neutrino coupler. So I never claimed to be a scientist.
I still didn’t think it would fly, not this century. The actual expense in time and material was an order of magnitude greater than that projected for rebuilding the Worlds. I contended that people—and their supposedly responsible leaders—would opt for security over dreams, when it actually came down to pulling out the checkbook.
O’Hara, of course, had recourse to the “lessons of history,” which somehow always became clear after the fact. What I underestimated in this context was the motivating power of paranoia. How did we get into space in the first place? she asked rhetorically. It never would have happened without last century’s mutual xenophobia between the United States and the Soviet Union (precursor to the late unlamented SSU).
So the fuel ship S-l is actually going out, early next year. If everything goes according to plan, S-2 fires up four years later. And we’ll be aboard it.
Charlie’s Will 
They had a large flatboat, almost a floating dock, more than big enough to hold the mules and wagon. A small flotilla of rowboats towed it across the water. The bridges from the next island south to Key West were intact: four keys that collectively were called “the Island.”
The Island did well by its family. For generations before the war, the Keys had tried to become more and more independent of the mainland. The automated desalinization plant still worked; anywhere on the Island you could turn on a tap and get any quantity of distilled water. Fish and edible seaweed shared huge mariculture pens, and hydroponic greenhouses produced everything from avocados to zucchini. No wonder the family had wanted to isolate itself; if the road were intact they’d have a constant stream of hungry nomads.
They put Jeff and Tad into a musty jail cell. After the jailer went away, Jeff sat down on the edge of the bed and whispered the obvious: “They’re never going to let us off this island alive.”
Tad nodded. He was looking at himself in the mirror over the sink, a real novelty. “Guess we better make ourselves wanted.”
“Make ourselves essential. And keep a weather eye out for changes of opinion.”
The jailer, who hadn’t spoken, came back with a pitcher of water and a tray of cold food. He slid both through a serving door and clumped away.
Jeff uncovered the tray. “Oh, this is cute.” A grape-fruit, two small fish, and a bowl of smoked human parts: fingers, cheeks, and a penis. “I wonder if it’s a special treat. Or just what they feed prisoners.”
“Pretty revolting.” Jeff agreed, but they had both eaten in the presence of worse. They polished off the fruit and fish, then gave the tray back to the waiting jailer. He walked off chewing on a finger. Tad fell asleep then, but Jeff sat on the bunk and watched the square of sky in their high window turn dark. He lay awake for some time after that, thinking. Maybe he was going to die here; maybe it didn’t make much difference. Maybe they had a transmitter and a dish.
For breakfast the jailer brought a glutinous soup without any meat. When they’d finished he drew his gun, unlocked the door, and motioned them out. He led them to a courtyard and pointed to a bench.
Soft breeze from the sea did not quite dispel the odor. There were four crosses, tilted over x-wise. One held most of a skeleton, hanging upside down; another, the slack remains of a person who had recently been butchered. The two others were empty, waiting, wood stained black with old blood. The birds had flown away when Jeff and Tad came out. Now they rejoined the ants and flies.
“Is this it?” Jeff asked the jailer. He just stared, staying well out of reach.
A heavy door to the outside wheeled open. Through it came two men helping a woman try to walk. One of the men was General, the pointy-toothed leader from yesterday; the other had a huge shock of brown beard. The woman obviously had the death.
As they got closer Jeff could see that the “beard” was actually a human scalp, held in place by strings.
“Good morning, General,” Jeff said.
“This is our charlie,” General said. “With Raincloud’s help he’ll tell us what to do with you.” Raincloud had probably been attractive until recently. Now she was drool and mucus and infected stumps where two fingers had been removed. She smiled sharp points and stared past them.
The charlie produced a slim black book, a vest-pocket dictionary, and opened it at random. “Raincloud!” he shouted, and her stare turned in his direction. “Liferaft,” he read.
“Rife laughed, raff life, life laugh.”
“Lighthouse.”
“Life light. Life life.”
The charlie looked at General with raised eyebrows. He shouted again at Raincloud: “Death house.”
She laughed. “Life house.”
He put the book back in his pocket slowly. “Hm. I’ve never heard it be more clearly spoken.”
“I suppose,” General said. He looked disappointed. “Give her the gift?”
“It’s her time. Get-the-fire-started,” he said slowly to the jailer. He and General managed to worry the shift off her unresisting, uncooperative body. She wore nothing underneath. They led her to one of the crosses and General began wiring her wrists and ankles to the boards while the charlie went inside the jail.
“That was luck,” Tad whispered.
Jeff shook his head. “No, it wasn’t. He had her trained.”
“What do you mean?”
“That dictionary opened to the N’s, nowhere near ‘liferaft.’ We have an ally.”
Their ally returned, minus the false beard, carrying a leather case. He walked straight to the girl, not looking at them. He opened the case and said, “Distract her.”
General poked her with a stiff finger and when she turned to look at him, the charlie pulled out a long, thick-bladed knife and plunged it between her breasts. She winced and shuddered, voided in a rush, but didn’t cry out. Jeff knew the final stages of the disease provided insensitivity to pain, but he had never seen it demonstrated so dramatically.