WORLDS SPINNING ROUND PART 1: DISCOVERIES

By T. E. Greene

MIKE WALLINGFORD was out of school, out of work and out of place, trapped in a decaying society of the early commercial space age. Thirsty for excitement and an opportunity to escape a crumbling home, Mike takes a chance on a mysterious company and finds himself on a venture stranger and more dangerous than he could possibly have imagined. On th

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Mulberry Books
• Release date: Mar 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781950850396

T. E. Greene

T. E. Greene lives in Connecticut with his wife and frequent visits with their children. He holds a masters degree in computer science from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, a teaching certificate from Eastern Connecticut State University and a bachelors degree in mathematics and general science from Barrington College. Moving on from a career teaching high-school math, science and computer programming, he enjoys music, coaching, travel and research "in just about anything." Current projects: fractal-based structures and a computer-generated timeline. "Math you can’t use is just pretty."

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Copyright © 1978-2005, 2019 by Timothy E. Greene.

Front cover design and artwork © by Sarah L. Greene.

Author photo © by Jonathan T. Greene.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No portion of this book, including the text, cover, artwork, acknowledgements and dedications, may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic or mechanical, without express, written permission from the copyright holder. Permission is granted to use brief quotes for the purpose of educational reference or literary review.

This book, Worlds Spinning Round: Discoveries, is a work of fiction. All the characters, companies and events portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination. Other than references to obvious historical figures and events, any resemblance to people living or dead, or the circumstances of their lives, is strictly coincidental.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-950850-40-2 [Paperback Edition]

978-1-950850-39-6 [eBook Edition]

Printed and bound in The United States of America.

Published by

The Mulberry Books, LLC.

8330 E Quincy Avenue,

Denver CO 80237

themulberrybooks.com

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Cover graphics are based in part on images courtesy of NASA/JPL-Caltech.

Thank you for making this vast treasure house of knowledge available to the public.

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While the events and characters in this book, with the exception of obvious, historical references, are fictitious, this work was based on factual research and checked by specialists in their various fields. However, much of the material is speculative, as is the nature of science fiction. Any errors, therefore, are mine, and mine alone.

This volume is the first in a trilogy. Volume One contains the bulk of the text from the original, single-volume version (unpublished) first put to paper beginning in 1978 and may reflect some of the mood of those turbulent times.

The world has been changing rapidly. I have been trying just to keep up with writing about possible, future events before they happen. Of course, when it comes to general principles, the more things change, as they say, the more things stay the same. So bear with me when a future event or invention has already come to pass. Or if something came out differently or not at all. Or if scientific discoveries made since this story was completed would require major changes to the plot. This is part of the risk of the adventure that is science fiction.

Specifically, an early speculation on atmospheric refraction (and which might turn out to be true, after all) is included as a thematic element. Also a coordinate system is deliberately inverted, in part to make the story more readable to those who are not scientific professionals, hopefully without causing confusion to those who are accustomed to the original system. I hope you who are will forgive this aberration.

The passage on nuclear fusion is likewise not intended to generate any illusion of expertise on my part. It is rather a series of What if? ideas more of the nature of Has anybody tried this? oriented toward encouraging creative thought on the subject.

A note on reading: This book may be read on several different levels. The more-technical passages may be skimmed over without losing the plot, though they often provide the reasons for events, actions and situations. About half of my beta readers advised me to tone down the science, the other half advised me to keep it as is. Since this is science fiction, after all, and since one of my major motivations for starting the project in the first place was a complaint from members of the scientific community over the shortage of such material, I decided to retain the original approach, but to smooth out the presentation as much as I could, so that the story wouldn’t read like a tech manual. I hope I have succeeded to some extent.

I need to point out here that the opinions and ideas expressed or implied in this book are not necessarily held by the persons credited in the acknowledgement section to follow. Many of you will disagree with one or more of the ideas in this book. You may even find errors in my use of the background material. I hope so. This writing is intended as a springboard for constructive discussion, the exchange of ideas, not the last word on everything. The collision of ideas is the foundation of creativity, after all.

I know there are bound to be mistakes in here. Well, non-fiction writers are entitled to upgrades. Maybe this is the solution to the literary, post-partem blues. In any case, if I held out for perfection first, nothing I write would ever get published. Who knows? There could be another edition.

I would love hearing from you. Readers’ comments may be directed to:

[e-mail] or

http://totalcontext.net --> contact or

http://tegworlds --> contact or through the publisher.

Readers’ comments may be read at:

http://totalcontext.net

-->tegworlds-->thoughtpool-->feedback or

http://tegworlds

-->thoughtpool-->feedback or

http://timlynn2.wixsite.com/tegworlds/

-->thoughtpool-->feedback or

Search: tegworlds totalcontext

(various search engines)

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First of all, I would like to thank all of the friends who allowed me to bounce ideas off them in putting this story together. I am especially grateful to those who consented to examine the text regardless of whether it might agree with their own views. Their expertise included, but was not limited to: aviation, biology, chemistry, computer science, English, geology, law enforcement and youth services, mathematics, mechanical engineering, nursing, science research and teaching in various disciplines. Among them were: Deb McKinney, who first read the first half of the manuscript and without whose encouragement I probably would have quit. Phil Meyer, who visualized the mechanics of the dome scenario. Numerous Beta readers, friends who looked for (and found!) all kinds of strange things that I tried to improve, among them: Julia Launer (Is all this necessary?), Denise Baird (When are they...?), Blaney Harris (Gripping.), Loretta Brown (What happens to...?), Sue Lunt, who encouraged me to keep the demanding passages on language and pointed out weaknesses in setting, Melissa Etienne, the first non-relative to read the complete manuscript and provide detailed commentary (often, This doesn’t make sense.), Judy Elwood, whose valued advice accompanied the last complete reading before I hit the publisher’s trail, my daughter Sarah, an aspiring writer in her own right, who proofread the entire manuscript, which was already older than she, between homework assignments, and was the first to read the completed text. She also composed the covers for all three volumes of the trilogy.

A special thanks to professor and colleague Dr. William H. Chrouser at Barrington College whose presentations on the biology, geology and culture of the deep Southwest left me with such vivid imagery that when I finally visited many of his favorite sites just before this book was completed, I found it necessary to change exactly one word in my manuscript. His approach to inquiry: When you see something, ask yourself, ‘Why is it there?’ Thanks for the inspiration and insight.

Finally, I want to thank my wife Lynn who was by my side every minute of this writing.

"If we are unwilling to venture, there can be no hope.

Without risk, there can be no progress."

— George Low, Former President of RPI

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During the first half-century of manned space flight, a series of unanticipated and essentially unrelated mishaps accentuated a profound shift in American attitudes toward publicly funded exploration. Many who felt the pain of those days were shaken from complacency or inspired to greater achievement. Those who supported such programs took note, often with surprise, that the accidents, while leaving scars as fresh as yesterday, had, in fact, averaged a decade apart. For others, each incident gave one more proof that resources were best spent on immediate and local benefits. Paradoxically, world politics was regaining prominence as isolationism ignored the fact that the poverty line as measured in the United States remained within the top few percent of world income. As often-willful ignorance drained an effort that had already paid for itself many times over, an entire generation passed when no one had returned to the moon. Some eventually did, but under circumstances that left them wondering whether the human race had lost its will to survive.

Table of Contents

Part One

Discoveries

Preface

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter One: Venture

Chapter Two: Base Camp

Chapter Three: Generalists

Chapter Four: A Trillion Dollars to Spend

Chapter Five: Behold the Turtle

Chapter Six: The More You Know

Chapter Seven: Dirigible

Chapter Eight: Soup

Chapter Nine: Dust

Chapter Ten: Sand

Chapter Eleven: Rocks

Chapter Twelve: Hooks

Chapter Thirteen: Common Factor

Chapter Fourteen: Post

Chapter Fifteen: Repeat after Me

Chapter Sixteen: Needs

Chapter Seventeen: Paths

Chapter Eighteen: Bridges

Chapter Nineteen: Detours

Chapter Twenty: Meetings

Chapter Twenty-One: Peeling an Onion

Chapter Twenty-Two: Potholes

Chapter Twenty-Three: Forensics

Chapter Twenty-Four: Preparations

Chapter Twenty-Five: Departures

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Venture

H ey, you! A warm, sunny dream dissolved in confusion as the figure on the park bench stirred.

You, kid–on the bench!

The figure turned stiffly, revealing a youthful face with eyes screwed tightly shut. Gradually one eye slit open just far enough to see a foot patrolman standing on the concrete footpath some dozen meters away.

Time to get home. Sun won’t last long and you can’t stay here after dark.

The youth sat up slowly, rubbing one eye. He was apparently older than first impressions would allow, perhaps in his very late teens.

Hate to mistake you for a ‘croacher,’ the officer admonished him. Or one gets you. Either way, not good.

The bench-sitter hesitated for the briefest of moments, then slid to his feet a bit unsteadily as traces of the interrupted nap drained reluctantly from his face.

Okay. I’m going. His voice was still rusty with sleep. I guess I was a little tired. He edged toward the walkway at just enough of an angle to avoid the policeman without making his intent too obvious.

The man watched him go, with an expression that was both a smile and a frown. Good kid, never gave trouble, but wasting his best years hanging around a tired, old town that couldn’t even offer him a steady job–there were too many kids like that around here these days; one cop couldn’t keep track of them all any more. Why, he couldn’t even remember the boy’s name. I should have retired at sixty, he thought, not for the first time. But with his social security deferred to age seventy, his pension wouldn’t have kept the little house he and his wife had shared those many years.

He rubbed his hip. His gun was starting to chafe a bit as it always did near the end of a long shift, but still it weighed less than the power pack to his stunner. He keyed an all-clear on his belt phone/locator to the backup car trailing unobtrusively behind him, then resumed his beat, which somehow seemed to have become just a little longer than the weight of his equipment could explain away.

A muffled, double boom almost startled him as he plodded on into the gathering twilight, but he knew it was only the hypersonic transport climbing out over the North Atlantic on its way to a suborbital jump to Australia or some other such place he’d probably never get to. He had heard the sound of the HST a thousand times–or was it ten thousand?–and did not turn to the south to watch the distant, gleaming arrowhead rise above the shadows to catch the rays of the setting sun before its leap ahead of the earth’s rotation made its own brief sunset complete.

The kid had not noticed the familiar sound, stared past his own lengthening shadow as he walked. How he hated that label! It made him feel half his age. Besides, he did have a name, even if no one could remember it in a town that had grown too big to be called a town anymore. Since the faltering, little gas station behind the park had laid him off earlier that summer, he hardly ever met anybody who knew his name. Except at home–

He almost came to a stop as he tried to shut out the memory of the cursing and the smash of a liquor bottle that had driven him to the park that afternoon. Only the illusion that the now-distant policeman was still staring after him kept him moving toward a scene he dreaded. If only his parents wouldn’t fight like that....

The pitted concrete of the footpath angled into the less-ancient plasfalt coating of the sidewalk bordering the park at a point just short of the street corner. A spark of defiance showed briefly as he cut directly through a momentary break in four lanes of Sunday evening traffic in pointed ignorance of both the nearby crosswalk and the blinking red DONT WALK signal, stuck that way since time immemorial. The only thing that stupid button on the pole could do, he thought disgustedly, was to turn all the traffic lights red for about two seconds. Failsafe solid-state design, hah! He hadn’t tried using it since the first time, two years ago, when he had been very nearly run over by a flexitruck and had been beeped at by all the assorted tire-screeching vehicles he could have cared to imagine. As if he were supposed to know all about the care and feeding of local, neglected crosswalk buttons when he had lived there only half a week.

He paused at the corner entrance to the neighborhood drugstore. A quick glance over his shoulder dispelled any suspicions of visual pursuit as he ducked inside. A few minutes of aimless browsing revealed no items of interest he could afford. He ended up at the newspaper rack.

The store carried one major paper in addition to several more-or-less local products. He was sick of area news and a few extra dollars wouldn’t hurt that much–he reached for the bulky evening edition.

The front page featured the continuing dispute by Argentina against Paraguay before the Claims Court of the World Bank. The new fusion reactor servicing the burgeoning population of the Paraguayan capital of Asuncion had been purported to be depleting the Parana River of its deuterium, thereby forcing the imminent shutdown of the reactor already operating downstream in western greater Buenos Aires. Damages had been filed in the amount of a two-way pipeline to the ocean plus loss of service and punitive damages. The Bank had immediately frozen Paraguay’s international assets pending settlement, sending the guarani plummeting on the Exchange.

The new news was a countersuit for damage to trade resulting from the original fraudulent charges. A landlocked nation, certainly, was entitled to eminent domain over its own headwaters. If extraction of one percent of the river’s heavy water was such a potential problem to their coastal neighbor, why hadn’t ocean water been used in the first place? There was probably plenty of it just offshore. The Bank was now considering freezing Argentina’s assets as well.

The controversy was a bitter nuisance to a team of scientists and their families hoping to emigrate to Mars to establish a new outpost some distance from that planet’s only spaceport. The ground-to-space ship that was to have carried them on the first leg of their journey was owned by the Argentinean government but was berthed, like most such ships in South America, at the National Spaceport of Bolivia and was therefore an international asset. There was another suitable ship at a physically more advantageous base in Ecuador, but contract settlements, transportation costs and the domination over the outlying regions of equatorial South America by the drug-financed Encroachers on civilized society were rendering the alternate solution unlikely. If their scheduled liftoff was delayed more than a few weeks by the lawsuit, the colonists would remain grounded for another eighteen months until the next of the narrow launch windows possible for the low-thrust plasma drives of the few interplanetary transports, the only way a non-military interest could afford to bridge the gulf between planets. ‘See Colonists, p. 3.’

Hi, Mike. A familiar voice broke into his headline scanning. Need anything else?

Oh, hi, Joe. Just the newspaper, thanks. Oh, and a liter of NeoSpring water. Joe was one of the few real friends Mike had made during their senior, and Mike’s only, year at the local high school.

No refill?

No, I wasn’t coming from home. If he weren’t talking to Joe, there would have been no way he would have disclosed that information. "I’ll bring in two bottles next time. I can’t stand that swimming-pool filler they pipe in to us."

Me either, Joe agreed. And the rate they charge... He tactfully avoided mention of Mike’s meager finances. Any leads on another job?

Nothing. I’m running out of places to look.

Joe flopped the paper onto the counter. Big-city paper, eh? Thinking of moving out of the area?

Mike started slightly. Hadn’t thought about that. I just wanted to see if there still is life in other cities.

Joe nodded. Know what you mean. Maybe reporters aren’t allowed to cross county lines any more. He chuckled mildly.

How about you, Joe? Are you happy here?

Well, it’s not bad. I’m not getting rich, but I just got a raise and Alice likes working in the pharmacy. His eyes swept down the nearest aisle and lingered for a moment. Maybe one of these days... He looked thoughtful.

Just remember to send me an invitation. Mike scooped up the paper and the bottle. I really have to get going.

He had almost reached the door when Joe spoke up again, softly.

Oh, Mike? Mike stopped, half turned, not sure why he hadn’t completed the motion. Joe didn’t talk like that.

Dirk’s out. Mike’s back stiffened. Their ex-classmate had done time for dealing in mindseye, a powerful, synthetic hallucinogen. It was also progressively narcotic. One of Dirk’s favorite tricks was to leave a notepad or a book of stickers impregnated with the stuff in a store rack where little kids could get at it, unsuspectingly through the damp skin of their small fingers. Then, when the rush was fading and the longing was setting in, he’d quietly appear somewhere and tell them what they had to do to get more.

He hasn’t been around here, Joe added. He knows I’d spot him. But if I were walking, he nodded toward the deepening sky, I wouldn’t stop anywhere else.

Thanks for the tip, Joe, Mike said as he pushed open the door. It was the second time inside of twenty minutes he’d heard something like this. See you. He stepped out into the early dusk.

Mike’s parents rented the middle floor of an aging, three-story house a few blocks away. It sat on a side street mostly fronted by similar structures occupying smallish yards. Some had low fences or hedges or even a straggling tree. More than one needed paint.

All the grass was brown. The rising price of water had substituted for rationing as the water table was further depleted by the still-increasing population, at least here near the East Coast. States farther inland were not so lucky. They had both high prices and rationing. Furthermore, the American Southwest had little water to ration. Real estate prices there had plummeted as farms were abandoned, the better ones on commission to optimistic speculators. The price of food had reacted predictably, rising most sharply in the Northeast and other urban areas.

Mike had lived in his present neighborhood since his father’s latest transfer. The move had not meant a raise, nor had his father been happy at the prospect of exchanging one obscure corner of the northeastern American megalopolis for another, but an insecure job market had done most of the arguing for the management.

The chat with his former classmate served to lighten Mike’s mood, in spite of the warning that had followed, as he passed this assortment of buildings without really noticing them. Only when he began to climb the stairs did the tightness begin to return to his insides.

Michael Wallingford, where have you been? Don’t you know that supper’s been over for an hour? Besides, it’s almost dark.

‘Almost’ only counts with N-bombs, Mike bristled under his breath as the unanswerable questions scraped a raw nerve.

Don’t talk to your mother like that, came his father’s voice from the living room. I would have eaten your supper for you while it was still hot.

Sorry, Mom. Mike relaxed somewhat. Apparently they had stopped fighting for now.

Can I see the paper while you’re eating? his sister’s voice broke in suddenly from the doorway to the bedroom hall. A voracious reader, she was frustrated with the summer closing of her high-school library and lack of transportation fare to the public library across town. They couldn’t even seem to afford Internet access. And nobody they knew in this neighborhood could afford a car, nor the fuel to power one.

‘May I please,’ Samantha, her mother reproved her.

Oh, Mom!

Give the sports to your father and leave the sale ads here.

Mike opened his mouth, then closed it. No doubt he would have to search the entire apartment later if he ever wanted to read the whole paper, but at least Mom wouldn’t cut any holes in it once she found out there was no local advertising. Sam and most of the paper disappeared.

The meal had been kept hot despite his father’s implication to the contrary. Mike dug in.

This isn’t our paper. If Mrs. Wallingford wanted something, she invariably referred to it as hers. The offending ad section landed on the table and Mike was alone in the room.

I don’t know where the money goes, Hazel. Mr. Wallingford was trying to balance the books. Every time we get almost caught up, another bill comes in.

Mike recalled the broken bottle of that afternoon and the price of liquor in a day when alcohol was needed desperately for fuel. He quickly tried to think of something else. The newspaper section attracted his attention.

Reading at the kitchen table was on the list of forbidden activities, but it was not strictly a mealtime and nobody else was there. He flipped the section open.

He found himself faced with a cartoon of a man shaving and threatening his mirror with replacement unless his looks improved. Mike found the implications depressing and quickly turned the page. That put him in the help-wanted notices. Normally, Mike would have passed up out-of-town classifieds in favor of a story about the new Mars outpost, but maybe it was just as well that he didn’t. Only qualified scientists and engineers and sometimes their families ever made it into space. He would be lucky even if he could someday afford to attend an evening college part-time. He began to skim through the job listings, only half-paying attention to their extremely specialized requirements, when one of the titles caught his eye.

EXCITING NEW PROJECT needs innovative people with wide range of interests and qualifications. No experience needed for some positions. Relocation, fringe benefits, expenses, profit sharing. Reply Venture, c/o this paper. Include times available for interview.

Mike reread the notice slowly. There was no mention of the nature of the project, but something implied in the wording intrigued him. He copied the ad instead of tearing it out and put the note in his pocket. No use leaving a hole in the paper as a clue. Mom wouldn’t like the idea of his moving out of town, and he didn’t want to start an uproar prematurely. Especially since he would have to listen to it.

He decided he would use the old, portable word processor after his parents took the bus for work in the morning. That would give him the whole evening to revise his background summary (he couldn’t bring himself to call it a resume; the gas station had supplied his only full-time job). If he checked the mailbox every afternoon before Mom got home, the subject wouldn’t have to be brought up until he knew whether he was going to get an interview. And, he thought grimly, if he didn’t get that interview, no one would ever have to know.

He finished the ads and supper together, although there were no other promising openings and the meal was no longer very hot. He fed the dishwasher and decided to try trading his section of the paper for the news. That would give him a logical explanation for holing up in his room. Besides, he did want to read about the new Mars colony.

He remembered not to tiptoe through the living room, even though he didn’t want to draw attention to himself the rest of the evening. Mom and Dad were both terribly sensitive to any attempt to be secretive. He needn’t have worried. Mom was engrossed in her favorite game show. A quick glance toward Dad’s easy chair revealed nothing but a pair of legs and a cloud of pipe smoke behind the sports page.

His sister’s door was open. She was sprawled out on her bed and propped up on her elbows, her chin cupped between her hands.

Done with the news yet, Sam?

Hi, Mike. Almost.

Mike sat on the edge of the bed. He and Sam got along pretty well. This would be her junior year of high school. She wanted to be a social economist specializing in population pressure and had a good chance at a college scholarship. Maybe, he thought, he should have studied harder, or at least in a field where experts weren’t already a dollar a dozen.

Done. Sam half rolled and sat up cross-legged. Something bothering you, Mike?

Just this afternoon, I guess. That was half true. Even so, he doubted he could fool her.

She nodded. I guess I’ll know the rest when I need to. I won’t say anything.

Thanks, Sam. He exchanged the back part of the paper for the front. Dad still has the sports. I’ll be in my room.

Mike read the Colonists article first. Mars was the second of the two worlds reached by man and had been visited more or less frequently for half a generation, but permanent bases had been possible for only the last few years. The main problem had been to keep the bases supplied. The settlements on the moon could send for a ship at any time and expect it to arrive in two days to a week depending on the type of propulsion. Plasma-driven shuttles were cheaper but slower; a few of the older, chemically powered ships were retained for emergencies.

Mars was a different matter. The plasma-powered ships were actually relatively faster over the greater distances since they could maintain thrust for the entire trip. However, Mars could be reached only during a short period of time every 780 days and the voyage itself would take months.

To the surprise of the politicians and propulsion scientists who were lobbying for funds to build more or bigger or faster ships, the solution to the problem came from a field most of them had never considered, the science of ecology. The increasing public awareness of population pressure had resulted, eventually, in the growth of environmental studies from a loosely organized collection of biological observations to a well-developed mathematical science with its own fledgling technology.

The study of systems in nature had enabled ecological engineers not only to alleviate some of the current or residual environmental disasters but also to synthesize truly self-contained ecosystems on a large scale. In fact, the larger units were more successful by the very nature of their size and environmental complexity, which gave them a flexibility no small system could achieve. One of the largest such environments was the settlement informally known as Marsport, population 208.

Mars Colony One, as it was officially called, could sustain itself indefinitely. Its one major weakness lay in its centralized construction and extreme isolation from Earth. To avert a potential catastrophe and at the same time aid exploration, outpost colonies were being built tens to hundreds of kilometers away from the main settlement. The expedition currently immobilized by the legal embargo in Bolivia hoped to become the fifth such colony.

The article finished, Mike tried to concentrate on his letter. Any way he rearranged his credentials, he came up with next to nothing. He had discovered early in his working life that even if a job required little or no experience, no matter how little it paid, some other applicant would have more of what was wanted than he did. He frowned thoughtfully.

The ad hadn’t described the jobs available, but it had indicated some vague qualifications for applicants. He decided to list his formal education and work record first, then indirectly downplay his shortage of both by concentrating on interests, hobbies and general knowledge.

He disposed of education with one entry and work with two. Before graduating he had worked as a laboratory assistant for each of the high school science courses he had completed in previous years. In addition to pocket money beyond the cost of his textbooks, he realized, he had picked up a considerable amount of extra and often practical knowledge. He decided to include that windfall in his general knowledge list.

Mike’s hobbies were limited by his finances, his interests only by his free time. Under general knowledge he listed everything he knew how to do. He even included the tractor he had learned to operate while at his cousin’s farm the previous summer. It was an almost obsolete machine with a primitive box for an on-board computer and only one manipulator arm but adequate for a small truck farm.

Mike discovered an unexpected variety of odd bits of knowledge acquired in various places between his family’s frequent moves. The completed list was impressive in length if not in content. Mike resequenced a few items for continuity and started the cover letter. For times available, he put anytime.

The next several days dragged miserably. Mike had typed and mailed the letter the following morning, then had found it impossible to concentrate on the few things he could find to do on a day that had become hot and sticky. The change in the weather developed into a real heat wave, pressuring Mike with a restless desire to get out of the apartment. At the same time, he felt the compulsion to be home in the afternoon when the mail came. He began to take long walks in the morning, returning home to build himself a sandwich before the early afternoon sun grew too oppressive. The walks burned up enough nervous energy for Mike to spend the hottest part of the day reading in the living room while consuming huge quantities of lemonade.

Evenings were typical of all evenings and less wearisome by his not expecting anything new of them. He took to setting the table before supper and picking up around the apartment, which pleased his sister; it was her job. Even in early August, school-related activities usually kept Sam from getting home until late in the afternoon, making her rush to finish her chores before supper. If their parents noticed the change, there was no sign.

The heat wave finally broke that Friday in a clap of thunder and a sudden downpour, blotting out the afternoon sun. Mike decided he was glad to be inside and resumed reading. The book was a novel of the Old American West. He had reached one of the better parts and was far away when the doorbell rang.

It was a very wet mailman.

Certified letter for Mr. Michael Wallingford, he announced in a tone that matched his disgust at being caught in the rain.

I’m Mike Wallingford. Somewhat puzzled, Mike took the envelope and signed the receipt. As he sat down again, he noticed that the return address was unfamiliar–a John Travers, nobody he had ever heard of. The letter inside was typed but carried no letterhead. It began:

Dear Mr. Wallingford:

We have received your reply to our Venture advertise-ment. After careful consideration by members of our staff, I have decided to ask you to come for a preliminary interview Tuesday afternoon at two o’clock.

Mike thought for a moment. That careful consideration must have been made quickly; Travers’ reply would have to have been mailed the same day he received Mike’s letter. He noted the address and groaned inwardly. At least four hours one way would be required for any form of mass transit he could afford. That would mean a very long day since he couldn’t afford a hotel room either. He read on:

Transportation has been reserved prepaid via the Shuttle and connecting taxis. You will be picked up at your address at noon. Please contact me immediately if you cannot make this appointment.

Mike blinked. The Shuttle was a system of high-speed trains brought painfully into existence by the resurgent threat of air piracy and used primarily by executives to whom time was more important than travel expenses. The trains could often outperform short-range air transportation in total travel time. Mike himself had never ridden one. His impression that Venture would turn out to be some fly-by-night organization diminished sharply.

He was sure by now of at least three things. One, they were in a hurry. It had been less than a week since he had seen the ad. Two, they were being rather secretive. He had yet to receive one clue as to the nature of the job or the company. Three, he was becoming terribly curious.

Four. He took a deep breath. Mom wasn’t going to like it one bit.

It’s about time the heat let up, Mike’s father muttered between forkfuls of reconstituted potato, even if it does rain all weekend.

Now, George, his wife protested, I don’t mind the heat at all.

Mike saw the chance to avert another squabble and lead up to what he had to say.

Maybe the changes make us appreciate the good weather, he said in what he hoped was a thoughtful voice. He noticed Sam watching him out of the corner of her eye. She already knows I’m up to something.

Maybe, his father echoed. Still, if there were enough money coming in, we could get an air conditioner.

Normally Mike would have ignored the hint. Instead he looked toward his mother in appeal. She reacted predictably.

It’s not Mike’s fault he doesn’t have a job. He’s looked everywhere.

Her husband backed down. I didn’t say it was anybody’s fault. He appeared to find renewed interest in the contents of his plate.

Here goes, Mike told himself.

I may have found something, he began rather tentatively.

His father looked up. Oh? he said around a mouthful of food.

A letter came this afternoon, Mike replied carefully. They want me to go for an interview Tuesday.

Oh, that’s good! His mother exclaimed. She apparently hadn’t realized that a letter implied an out-of-town job.

Mr. Wallingford had. Do you have the letter with you?

Right here. Mike handed it over.

Two eyebrows crawled slowly upward. It looks like they’re willing to spend money on you. What’s the position?

They seem to have a variety of openings, Mike hedged.

What do they do? his father persisted. Mike felt trapped.

Sam stepped in. Most companies that advertise for varied openings are conglomerates or service companies with a central personnel office, aren’t they?

Mike felt a little better. Besides, it won’t cost anything to check.

His father nodded. Do you still have the ad?

In my room.

I’d like to look at it after supper.

George Wallingford read the ad a second time, then said slowly, There’s something here I don’t understand. But you’ve got to start supporting yourself sometime and interviews are free. Go to a movie or something. I’ll talk to your mother.

Mrs. Wallingford maintained a stony silence throughout the weekend. Surprisingly, her husband remained sober. He sensed that, for once, his good behavior could accomplish something, and he was tired of thinking of himself as a nobody.

Mike had spent Friday night and most of Saturday at the library, the cost of movies being what they were, but failed to discover the identity of his prospective interviewers. He speculated that the company might be newer than the yearly business register, hence, new project or that Venture was a project name only and that he still didn’t know the name of the organization. He used a library computer to inquire about the address on the envelope. The office turned out to be a hotel room registered to John Travers, no company, no title. He began to get mental goose flesh. He hoped whatever they were doing was legal.

Mike’s uneasy mood was not improved Saturday afternoon by the gaunt figure in the public phone alcove near the library bus stop. The long and ill-fitting cloth coat concealed deceptively skinny shoulders and Mike-didn’t-know what else. This one was as tough as they came. As Mike passed, Dirk pretended not to notice him. Only the eyes moved.

Tuesday, the taxi showed up exactly at noon. Mike felt strange, not paying the cabby. He felt even stranger when he gave his name at the train-station window and was given a round-trip ticket already stamped with destination and date, without having to pay for that, either. He supposed a lot of people bought reserved seating, but it made him feel conspicuous. He went out to the platform to wait.

He was leaning against the passenger barrier, a long-needed safety feature forced into use by the advent of the Shuttle, when a warning signal sounded from the platform across the tracks. He turned and glimpsed the streamlined, single car of a Shuttle growing rapidly in the distance. For a brief instant as it flashed by he could see the double-ended needle shape that had given its name a double meaning. It was shrinking to a pinpoint even as he turned his head to follow it. There was a sudden gust of wind. Then silence.

Mike knew that Shuttles stopped only at locations designated on passenger tickets and used any skipped stops to save time and energy. He also knew that the Shuttle he had just seen had been moving at only a fraction of its top speed. Even so, that fraction was double highway speed. It was all very exciting, but he began to wonder if maybe he should have taken the bus after all.

Another warning signal, this time from the barrier he was leaning on, nipped his jitters and made him stand back. A second Shuttle appeared from the direction where the first had vanished, moving much more slowly. It glided smoothly and almost silently to a stop on air-cushioned rail guides. The barrier lowered itself into an extension of the platform and Mike stepped aboard the Shuttle.

He found an empty window seat and looked around to see how the others were taking the excitement. Most of them looked bored. A few were using laptop computers or cell phones. The rest were asleep. All had briefcases. Mike didn’t. He began to feel conspicuous again and turned his attention to the window as the train left the station.

Speed built up. Air ramming into the scoops of the rail guides more than supplemented what was lost from overrunning the cushions supplied by the pumps and raised them farther from the tracks. The ride remained glass-smooth in spite of operating over conventional rails.

After a short time, Mike could no longer make out details of objects near the tracks. Twice during the trip they passed conventional trains. Mike could not tell which way the other trains were going. The ride became exhilarating, then hypnotizing. Three times they slowed for other stations but did not stop. After nearly forty minutes of blinding speed they slid into his destination and Mike got off.

I’m John Travers. The man who shook Mike’s hand in the hotel lobby was of a smallish build and angular of both face and frame. Large, dark eyes behind a prominent nose and quick movements gave a slightly birdlike impression. But the eyes were deep and searching and every motion was studied and deliberate. His speech was slower, careful and in some ways reserved.

As they walked to the elevator, Travers began to ask questions about Mike’s current activities, then his family and life in general. By the time they reached Travers’ suite, Mike found himself doing most of the talking. Fifteen minutes later, he had said more about himself than he had intended and a few things he himself had not consciously known. Apparently Travers was more than just a member of that rare breed, the good listener.

You’ve moved rather often. Travers made that not quite a question. Do you have any close friends?

Mike thought for a moment. Joe, Alice–only because she was Joe’s girlfriend, Sam (was Travers including relatives?), a few from former neighborhoods.

Not many. I guess I don’t make friends that easily. Whenever we move, I seem to lose track of all but one or two from that area.

But you do keep in touch with those few.

Mike nodded. Travers seemed silently pleased.

Why do you think you have trouble making friends?

Was he asking why he had trouble or whether he really did? Mike tried to answer both ways.

When I move to a new area, it’s a long time before I feel comfortable around anyone. I don’t know what they think of me and I don’t want to force myself on them. Maybe they feel the same way, because nothing happens for weeks or even months. Most of the people I got to know well in school were involved in the same activities or at least in the same classes.

Travers almost smiled. That’s as good an analysis as I’ve heard in quite a while. The situation is common, probably almost universal if the truth were known. Your friendships only take longer to start because you’re not sure of yourself socially. Your self-confidence seems to be much greater in other areas. Not many people will answer an ad for an unknown job, unfortunately for us. What do your parents think of your coming?

Mike hesitated. Dad wants me to be sure of what I’m doing before I get into anything, but he says I should get out on my own sometime. Mom...well, she isn’t talking much right now.

Did she give you a hard time when you answered the ad?

He’s worse than Sam. I didn’t tell them until I got your letter.

Travers said nothing. Mike blurted out, It would just have led to another fight or something. Now why did I have to say that?

Do your parents fight often?

Enough. It always starts with some stupid little thing and blows up. No reason for it.

Everything has a cause, even if it’s not immediately apparent. It takes both patience and understanding to find the root of this kind of problem. You seem to have more than an average share of patience, Mike. How well do you understand your parents?

Wellll, they’re parents. Most people wind up that way eventually. It’s not their fault, I guess.

Do you resent your parents?

Not really. Mom is a bit bossy but not just to me. Dad is usually too tense to listen to me and he drinks a lot, but I think his job has a lot to do with it. They’re not bad compared to a lot of people.

Other parents?

I don’t know many other parents. I was thinking of a couple of teachers I had. Some people just have to throw their weight around and they never listen. Mike felt the room getting warm.

Travers picked that point to change the subject. He scanned Mike’s letter while Mike took a couple of deep breaths.

You have quite a variety of experiences listed here. What are you interested in?

Mike thought. What wasn’t he interested in?

Everything. I guess I’m just naturally curious.

Travers actually did smile slightly this time, the first Mike had seen.

"You wouldn’t believe how many people I’ve talked to who have no sense of curiosity or adventure. In fact, one of our biggest personnel problems is finding people who both have the right qualifications and are also naturally curious and adventurous.

What do you think of adventures, Mike?

I like to read adventure books, if that’s what you mean. I’ve never had a real adventure or anything like that. A couple of friends of mine used to get themselves into a lot of trouble doing wild things. I always thought they were crazy, taking chances like that. If they’d known what they were doing, it might not have been so bad.

It sounds as if you did the sensible thing. What if you had a chance to discover something important, but there was a fairly substantial calculated risk?

It would depend on how important, how much risk and whether everything had been done to eliminate unnecessary chances. Everything has a certain amount of risk to it, even crossing a street. He thought of the stuck crosswalk signal back home.

Travers put the resume down.

We need a number of people with a wide general background but no particular experience, since most of the skills we need do not presently exist, except among the specialists who invented them. The trainees will have to master a wide variety of jobs, some exciting, some demanding, some tedious. We can probably use you in some capacity, but we will need to give you a full series of physical, psychological and aptitude tests to determine your suitability for any given position. The acceptable applicants will be assigned in such a way as to provide us with an optimum combination of skills for a team of a given size as well as to allow efficient substitution in the event of an unexpected change in personnel. Once the main phase of the project begins, our manpower will be severely limited. If someone becomes unable to work, his duties will have to be taken over immediately by the most suitable person or persons available.

Travers dark eyes looked deep into Mike’s. Would you accept employment in a support role if it turned out that was where you were most needed?

Mike returned the gaze and answered seriously, As long as the objective of the project is really important and I would be supporting it directly.

"It’s important. And all support work you could be involved in would affect the project directly.

Here are some papers you will have to read and sign before you can report for testing. Travers handed Mike a thick manila pouch. They include release forms for transcripts, aptitude test scores and medical data, among other things. Send those out right away. That will save us a considerable amount of time. I’ll also have to make you an identification badge before we’re done today. Would Friday be a good day to report? That will give you a day for paperwork and a day to pack. The tests will take about a week and you’ll need a couple of days following your arrival to adjust before they start.

Mike took another deep breath. Friday’s fine.

The papers I just gave you also contain your transportation schedule. Now, I know you must have a few questions.

A few! I hardly know where to start. First, why the secrecy? I still don’t know what’s going on. Second, what exactly is this project trying to accomplish? At least I should know that much. Important to you may not be important to me. A flicker of approval was overtaken by a hint of confidentiality.

This venture is being made at great financial risk, Travers replied. If security can be maintained for five more months, we can guarantee a nineteen-month jump on the competition. Consequently, we are giving prospective employees only enough information for them to make a decision. Also, to minimize the possibility that a security leak will hurt us, all new personnel are being hired during a two-month period, which is now nearly over. This will allow us just enough time to complete preliminary training before the main phase of the project begins.

Travers paused and looked grave.

"Before I may tell you any more, I must ask you to sign a statement that you will not release information about the nature of this project to anyone who does not have a specific need to know nor to anyone who cannot be trusted not to divulge the same information to anyone else. This is generally understood to mean immediate family members only, although there are exceptions. You must use your own judgment in this matter, remembering that willful breach of this agreement could incur heavy financial liability on your part for damages. This agreement is, of course, legally void if you have reason to suspect wrongdoing on our part. Proper law enforcement officials making inquiries in an official capacity are, naturally, also exempt from these restrictions. The agreement will remain in force until after the main phase of the project has officially begun, which should be in three to five months.

Read the statement carefully before you sign it. He handed Mike a printed sheet.

Mike studied the document. It said essentially what Travers had told him. He couldn’t think of any reason not to sign it. Besides, he had the feeling that if he didn’t, his chance for a job would end right there. Even if he agreed to go into it blind, sooner or later he would find out something he shouldn’t. He signed and dated the paper and handed it back.

Travers pulled off the carbonless copy, gave it to Mike and continued.

"The aim of the project is exploration for profit, not only from saleable resources and services but also from information that may be turned to long-term advantage. In other words, we’re looking for spinoffs from our immediate goal.

The papers you will have to sign contain all the more-routine legal details. Anything else?

Your ad mentioned relocation. Mike had reached the last question on his list that seemed likely to be answered at that time. Relocation where?

John Travers nodded slowly, as if the question had some unusual significance.

About two-fifths of our people will be stationed southwest of Denver at our main facility. One-fifth will be mobile, either as business agents like myself or involved in transportation. Most of those positions are currently filled, although that may change shortly. He paused. The remaining two-fifths, on Venus.

24103.jpg

Base Camp

The trip home seemed uneventful to a dazed Michael Wallingford. His imagination rioted with wild speculations, the organized remnant of his conscious mind too bemused to keep fantasy in check. One reality he was becoming increasingly aware of: the moment when he was going to have to tell somebody was approaching with the speed of the Shuttle that carried him. He bit his lip. When Mom found out, there was going to be a battle. Maybe he could tell Sam first, then Dad. Dad could tell Mom, then Sam could stall her rampage until she calmed down a bit.

No use worrying like this. It made him even more fidgety. He suddenly remembered that Travers had cautioned him to read everything in the envelope he was carrying before he got home.

Don’t try to fill it out on the train, just read it, Travers had said. Mike looked at his watch, then at the bulging package he carried. Fill it out! He would be lucky if he got anywhere near the bottom of this monstrous stack of paper before his station came up–unless he started right now. He buried his mental wanderings in a sea of print.

Twenty minutes later, he was bewildered, overwhelmed and thoroughly scared. He had seen legal documents of this kind before, had even signed a few, but not dozens of them, all together at once. Not that he had any reason to distrust the Venture people, but he could be selling his figurative soul in the fine print and never realize it until they came to collect.

He drew a deep breath, leaned back and stared out at the speed-blurred landscape as he tried to calm his nerves and clear his head. They couldn’t legally obligate him to anything illegal, could they? Besides, here was a chance to get involved in something important and exciting away from dead-end jobs in dead-end towns. And deep down inside, he knew this was something he really wanted.

But why go to Venus, of all places? No one had ever landed there, or tried to, for that matter. Unmanned probes, however well designed, had failed to continue data transmissions for more than a few Earth-days. The place was literally hotter than an oven, the pressure at the bottom of its atmosphere enough to overcome a deep-sea diver, the lightning storms like a protracted atomic war. The air, if one could call it that, was choked with corrosive and toxic gases, which at that temperature and pressure would make short work of most materials used on Earth. There might be extensive volcanic activity and perhaps earthquakes. Potentially worse, instruments designed to measure various events on the surface of the planet had frequently reported some kind of disturbance just before radio contact was lost, probably an echo of a failing environmental control system, possibly not.

Travers had said, Unexplored territory has the highest potential yield. Also, our plan was designed to maximize opportunities for discovery while minimizing risk to personnel or equipment. Venus is the closest such opportunity and hopefully the most accessible.

He had also mentioned great financial risk. Come to think of it, most of the forms he had looked at so far involved insurance or medical matters or were release forms giving Venture permission to do this or that.

If I had to manage the money, he mused, I’d protect myself every way I could. He wondered who would insure a Venusian explorer. That place in London? He doubted it. Nevertheless, he was starting to appreciate the Venture administration’s situation. Feeling considerably better, he resumed reading.

Well, how did it go? Mr. Wallingford raised one eyebrow as Mike entered the apartment.

Mike’s heart dropped into his socks. The whole family was seated at the kitchen table. He had hoped to get home before supper so he would have time to set things up quietly. Now he would have to improvise the best he could.

Not bad. He tried to hide his apprehension at the potential inquisition. They’re interested enough to send me to their main office for some more interviews and aptitude tests. I think Sam’s right. They seem to have a great variety of openings. He glanced at Sam with the intention of catching her eye. It wasn’t necessary. She was staring right at him, round-eyed and intent. He continued before he lost his train of thought. I got the impression there is more of a question as to what kind of a job I will get rather than whether I will get a job.

Where is this main office? George Wallingford kept the initiative. He was determined, for as long as possible, not to lose control of the situation. If Hazel got going, there would be no stopping her.

Mike kept his voice even. Near Denver.

Oh, no, his mother said under her breath.

When are you going, Mike? his father asked.

Friday.

How long are you going to be there?

About a week.

Did they tell you anything else?

Mike groped for words, came up empty.

Did they at least tell you what they do?

Here goes. They’re into exploration. They market discoveries. But they also need a lot of support people, so I may not be doing anything like that, he added hastily. I understand they’re being sponsored by some kind of foundation. By the way, I had to sign a paper that I wouldn’t tell anyone outside this family about what they’re doing until they’ve actually started, so please don’t tell anybody. He waited.

Sam nodded. His father stared thoughtfully, then said, I guess you had to or they wouldn’t have told you anything. Did you get a copy?

Mike pulled it out of the envelope and handed it over.

It looks okay. We won’t say anything. He looked at his wife. She didn’t argue. What’s in the rest of that pouch?

Mike dropped it on the table, sat down and pushed it across to his father. You might as well read through it. I already have. If I’m making a mistake, I’m not taking all the blame.

Mrs. Wallingford had latched onto something in the conversation. Now she broke into the pause.

You said exploration. That means the ocean or Antarctica or the moon. Her voice was becoming shrill. Or Mars. She had convinced herself. They want to send you to Mars, don’t they?

Please, Hazel. Only specialists go into space. She gave her husband a how-would-you-know look.

Mike realized this was the time to get it over with.

Dad’s probably right, Mom. I wouldn’t be going anywhere, anyway. Besides, it’s not Mars, it’s Venus.

Bedlam reigned supreme and seemed on its way to founding a dynasty with four people talking like twelve, each one to each of the other three.

My son is not going to be shipped off to some uninhabited nightmare!

Oh, Mike, I sure hope you get to go.

This is quite a stack of paper they gave you, Mike. I’ll need a couple of days to go through them thoroughly.

Thanks, Sam.

George, do something!

I have to call them by Thursday if anything is wrong, Dad, and I have to take the papers with me.

Everything is wrong with this business!

Now, Hazel, Mike is of age. It’s up to him.

If I go, Mom, it’s because I want to go.

Don’t worry, Mom. Mike will be all right.

All mothers worry, Sam. You’ll find out by the time you’re our age.

The uproar gradually died away, leaving them all emotionally exhausted. As they sat staring at each other, Mike sniffed the air.

Something’s burning.

I’ll get it! Sam dived for the stove. Mrs. Wallingford fled from the room. Her bedroom door slammed.

Slightly burned food seemed strangely appropriate as the remaining three ate in silence. Finally Mike stood up.

I’m going to see what I need to pack.

Don’t worry, Dad. After a while Mom will see that everything is alright.

I hope so, Samantha. I hope so.

Friday morning dawned bright and clear. George Wallingford surprised everyone by taking a vacation day and especially startled Sam by getting her excused from her third day of school.

He announced, We’re going to see you off at the train, Mike, then I’m taking Sam shopping for the day. It’s about time you saw I really do want the best for you. He stopped abruptly and pretended to study the floor, embarrassed at his own unaccustomed openness.

His wife had taken time off from work as well, a sick day for a splitting headache.

The taxi driver got out to load Mike’s suitcases, took one look at the three would-be passengers and shook his head. Sorry, can’t do it. This call says one passenger, prepaid, to the Shuttle, then I’m back to street calls.

Mr. Wallingford countered, "We’re all going the same place. All the luggage belongs to